“You see?” the old woman whispered. “The Valley’s yours too. Always was.”
She thought of her father’s stories of Mississippi, of her mother’s escape from Saigon. She thought of how neither of those places would claim her fully—and how she didn’t need them to. The Black Valley was a patchwork. And she, Honey Gold, was the thread that held it together. -BlackValleyGirls- Honey Gold - Blasians Like I...
Honey Gold was the queen of them.