Orange heart. Not red. Red is for commitment, for "I'd die on this hill," for people who have never sat in a car with black seats in August. Orange is warmer than a like and shadier than a love. Orange is the exact temperature of the feeling you get when your home state lands dead last on another list and you still catch yourself defending it to a guy from Ohio.
Because where else do you get catfish that good, tamales in the Delta, kudzu swallowing a barn whole, and a college football Saturday that counts as a religious holiday? The humidity is personal, the mosquitoes have a union, and you would still drive eight hours back for a plate at your grandmother's table. That is an orange heart situation and everybody down here knows it.
Soft, broken in from the jump, and built with the kind of weight that holds its shape after the wash. Stitching that does not quit, colors that stay loud, and a fit comfortable enough to wear until somebody asks where you got it.
