Rusty

Long hair, thick and red like the rust on an old water fountain left out in the sun too long. Green eyes bright like the blades of grass in spring. Guess my race, bet you won't get it. Then again you may. My shape is like the dusty road that curves to the left and the right, wide enough just right. Lips thick like pieces of bread fruit and lashes long as vines. My mother was as black as the indigo that drips from the plant, hair was as wooly as the cotton we picked. But I loved her. Yeah they snickered when we walked by. I didn't get here by accident. God doesn't make mistakes. I was put here on purpose. Regardless if my daddy was an Irish man, the overseer that slicked his way in my mother's mud hut. And then there was me. Me. Momma named me Perception. But she calls me Rusty for a nickname. Because of my wild fire engine hair. Boy do I have a story to tell you.