I didn’t know what to say to him. Though Uncle Root’s mind was quick as ever, the once incredibly handsome, not-very-tall man now sat in a wheelchair. His body sank like the graves in the oldest part of the cemetery, the ones marked by bald rocks, or wooden crosses. Some had nothing except a slight depression in the ground. No words to tell onlookers who lay in which plot, only a hope that someone else would take up the charge of remembering to pluck the weeds. How foolish I’d been to think he wouldn’t ever get to this point. Every strength must break apart. I should have known that, more than anyone.
“Uncle Root, how can you say that? Miss Rose is alive. Mama’s alive. I’m here, and we all love you.”
“Oh, child.”
I kicked up the brake on his chair, but one of the wheels was caught in something. It had been so easy to push the chair over the field no more than a hundred yards. It never occurred to me that it would be a task to turn the chair around.
Then, from across the field, David called. Knowing what would happen in the cemetery, he had come to help us. He waved his arms wide, and the old man and I waited with our kin for him to join us.
The Voices of Children
In my dream, I’m settled down at the table in Dr. Oludara’s office, reading articles for her. I open up a folder and see a moving picture. I lean closer and I expect to fall inside, but I don’t. But then the picture is gone, the table is gone, and I’m standing underneath a peach tree in Miss Rose’s orchard.
I walk through the peach trees and come out on the other side. I see my granny’s house, but instead of Miss Rose, there is a white man sitting on the porch with a book in his hand. He looks up and doesn’t see me, but I follow his gaze to the fields where my uncle works in the mornings, before he goes to his night shift at the factory. But there are plants with white puffs there, instead of the soybeans my uncle works. Cotton. And there’s no tractor, only Black folks picking the puffs. Somehow, they are careful, even as their fingers are quick.
I hear the voices of children, and I see the long-haired lady and Lydia walking toward me. There are children on either side of them, their high voices chirping. Questions in the non sequiturs typical of the very young. The long-haired lady speaks to me in her rare, unknown vowels, and I think, after all this time, I still don’t know who this woman is, even as something in the back of my mind urges me that I do.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
She touches her chest and says something, but I don’t understand. I shake my head, and she talks to Lydia, who seems to comprehend her perfectly.
“She says you know her name already.”
“No. That’s not true.”
I know this is a dream. That I can’t be killed or wounded, but I’m careful not to raise my voice. To not offend the woman who has been with me for so long.
“Yes, you do, baby sister,” Lydia says. “You do. You just need to remember.”
I open my mouth to answer, but it’s as if I have glue in my mouth. My words are garbled, and I begin to choke, until Lydia pats my back. Breathe, she tells me, until I calm, and we begin to walk again.
We reach a cabin. It’s propped up on a series of bricks. In the little dirt yard is a man in a rocking chair whose skin is the darkest I ever have seen, and his teeth are white and strong and beautiful. The children sit down in front of him. They wiggle and laugh. When the man snaps his fingers, they quiet. When he speaks, I know this language is English, but it sounds like complex music. I only understand every fourth or fifth word, so I put aside my need for comprehension, and pay attention to the sounds.
I listen to the children’s response, their cries of appreciation. To the rise and fall of the man’s voice, the music dipping into sage chords. I know the story will be over soon. That I will wake up with a question. And then another, but the question is what I have wanted. The question is the point. The question is my breath.
Acknowledgments
First, as always, I give unashamed glory and praise to my mighty good God, and to my Ancestors who continue to guide my path.
There is one Ancestor in particular who made my intellectual journey possible: the great W. E. B. Du Bois. My novel isn’t based on his life, but rather on the lives of the inhabitants of one （fictitious） town in Georgia, a state he lived in for years. But I hope the spirit of the great scholar hovers over my book, and I hope that I have his blessing.
I was reared by a Georgian woman, who taught me southern home training, and how to listen to and revere old folks. I want to thank my mother, Dr. Trellie Lee James Jeffers （Spelman College, Class of 1955）， for her sacrifices, her hard work, and her passing on her incredible intellect as well as her important cultural lessons to me. Thank you to Mama’s parents, Florence Napier Paschal James and Charlie James, and Mama’s siblings, Alvester James, Thedwron James, Edna James Hagan, Florence James Shields, Charles James, and Larry Paschal.