Delfina Robichaux was born between the tide and the cane fields, where gossip carries farther than the wind and coffee is strong enough to hold a spoon upright. She spent most of her working years as a school bus driver, learning that children will tell you the truth whether you ask for it or not. When she wasn't steering forty feet of yellow steel, Delfina sang alto in the church choir, baked pies that never saw a store-bought crust, and refused to eat coconut on principle.
She has a fondness for fried chicken, hush puppies, and watching the tide roll in with a chipped mug of chicory coffee in hand. Her stories are stitched from the scraps of small-town memory, half-heard conversations, and the things people swear they'll take to the grave. The Last Porch Light is her way of leaving one light on - just long enough for you to find your way in, but not long enough to overstay your welcome. Delfina still plays the spoons, swears she can smell a storm before she sees it, and keeps her porch light on only when she means it.
She has a fondness for fried chicken, hush puppies, and watching the tide roll in with a chipped mug of chicory coffee in hand. Her stories are stitched from the scraps of small-town memory, half-heard conversations, and the things people swear they'll take to the grave. The Last Porch Light is her way of leaving one light on - just long enough for you to find your way in, but not long enough to overstay your welcome. Delfina still plays the spoons, swears she can smell a storm before she sees it, and keeps her porch light on only when she means it.