Cecilia Wilder sent another smooth-faced stone across the murky Tuckasegee River. The rock landed near the opposing bank, disturbing the river’s placid surface with a satisfying plop. Grown right alongside the July corn, Cecilia’s fondest memories were caked in mud and dirt. She was an only child and learned to rely on the woodland critters for company. The chirping of cicadas and cooing of jaybirds kept the loneliness at bay. She would often return home from her adventures to a supper of smoked cod, collard greens, and heirloom tomatoes fresh from the garden. Ma would pull piping hot peach cobbler from the oven, which Cecilia would devour with honey-coated lips.

“Gracious, child,” her mother would say, southern accent as thick as the honey dripping down the girl’s chin. “Better save some of that for your Pa, else I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Cecilia would laugh, her mother’s laugh, the sound bright and true. Ma’s laughter was a memory Cecilia vowed never to forget, her own secret song she kept close to her heart. It was in moments like these, sitting on Old Tuck’s shore, that she swore she could hear her mother’s music being carried away by the Carolina winds.