The house is sad. The vacant windows without lace curtains stare sadly back at me, accusers of abandonment.
It truly is not my fault, I plead. Yet there is doubt in that statement. Could I have chosen differently? Is my sister an easy target to blame?
I wander down the dusty road to the cemetery to say hello to all my ancestors, starting with great, great grandfather Meek, saving my son for last. None speak back. They are not there. Not like in Thornton Wilder’s “Our Town” where they sit in chairs and talk to one another about the live folk coming.
Over the chain link fence are the slave graves and I wonder if I will ever have archeologist dig for their graves. My brother knew where they were. He walked me through the trees pointing out each one. They were great, great grandfather Meeks helpers…8 in total. Females were not counted.
The wind heard my voice murmuring “I will be back, Freddie, I love you.” and sent it through time and space to him and as I turned my face upward, I could feel a slight breeze brushing my skin.
Leaving the shiny new tombstone is hard, even if I know he is not there. “How,” I ask myself, “do I live the rest of my life?”
Returning the way I came, walking the road of my childhood, back to the green house now one with the bamboo and brambles, waiting in silence.