THIS LAND
My cell phone begins to buzz, the name “Mom” flashing across the screen. We start the conversation the way we always do when I’m on the road for work: She asks me about the nearest town, and I try to catch its name as I whiz by the highway sign on my way to somewhere else. Then: “I need a favor,” she injects quickly, and I sigh, wondering what sort of detour I’m about to take. “Can you just pick up something little…” My mother’s voice sounds brittle and tired. She has been a mail carrier for twenty-one years in Upstate South Carolina, and after Thanksgiving, the time she has to report to work at the post office pushes up earlier and earlier, from 8:00 a.m. to 6:00 a.m., and then, in the