My first slip wasn't the blade that slipped—it was the hand that caught it. In '87, at the old citrus grove west of Apopka, the spray gun ate its own shadow. I didn't scrub the stain. I traced it with molten gold. That scar is the spine of this dome.
Briana—your Festival isn't a memorial. It's a loom. I'm weaving my thread into your warp.
Ashley—your peach jar didn't explode. It bloomed. I've planted my own seed in your soil.