My room is dark when I return to it. I fall on my bed, wet hair curlin' 'round my face, memories unfortunately floodin' my brain. When I'd entered the kitchen, Miss. Lizabeth a step behind, she was sittin' in a chair, and I was lookin' at the jewels caressing her neck. She was worse than I'd remembered, all uppity and rude. She kept her nose up in the air, showin' me her crazy long neck and backside of her chin.
She'd exchanged a pleasantry or so, than insisted that I shower. She said I was a disgrace of a lady for carin' to dress all sloppy. I stuck my nose up to her, then left the kitchen for the parlor. Miss. Lizabeth joined me soon after. We said nothin' of the mistress.
The day went on by, like most, and we concentrated on arithmetic, not readin'. I suspect that it has to do with Miss. Lizabeth bein' better at that. She don't wanna be embarrassed no more. Mary joined us sometime when we were addin' and went alon' with my ill excuse.
I think Miss. Lizabeth knew we was lyin'. She said nothin' of the matter, jus' noddin' when I explained for Mary. I hate her mos' of the time, but every once and a while I see why Mary likes her so.
My bed is soft beneath my body, cradlin' me as I attempt to dream. But no matter, my eyes stay glued to the celin', watchin' the reflection of the moon from outside. It makes me remember las' night, and I can't help but wonder if the runaway decided to try again tonight.
For the second that that thought runs 'cross my brain, I hope he makes it. I pray to the Lord that the dogs don't find him, that he makes it to them abolitionists in the north.
"Oh please Lord, let him be safe," I whisper beneath my breath, tryin' to shield the fact that I spoke.
If daddy were to know... My thoughts trail as I think of daddy. If we were short handed one more, we wouldn't have nough' slaves to beat Mr. Granger. Daddy'd be shamed for lettin' a slave go. Even daddy's cotton production would be down. We could grow broke and turn into them white trash.
My brain turns into a messy slob as I try to figure out my thoughts. I can't be prayin' for no slave. That ain't right. If he does run away, the dogs should catch 'em. But I don't pray to God askin' for that.
Time ticks by, the moon movin' from view, when I close my eyes. Jus' as my unconscious mind starts to take over I have one last thought- one last prayer. I wish that the slave hadn't run away at all
She'd exchanged a pleasantry or so, than insisted that I shower. She said I was a disgrace of a lady for carin' to dress all sloppy. I stuck my nose up to her, then left the kitchen for the parlor. Miss. Lizabeth joined me soon after. We said nothin' of the mistress.
The day went on by, like most, and we concentrated on arithmetic, not readin'. I suspect that it has to do with Miss. Lizabeth bein' better at that. She don't wanna be embarrassed no more. Mary joined us sometime when we were addin' and went alon' with my ill excuse.
I think Miss. Lizabeth knew we was lyin'. She said nothin' of the matter, jus' noddin' when I explained for Mary. I hate her mos' of the time, but every once and a while I see why Mary likes her so.
My bed is soft beneath my body, cradlin' me as I attempt to dream. But no matter, my eyes stay glued to the celin', watchin' the reflection of the moon from outside. It makes me remember las' night, and I can't help but wonder if the runaway decided to try again tonight.
For the second that that thought runs 'cross my brain, I hope he makes it. I pray to the Lord that the dogs don't find him, that he makes it to them abolitionists in the north.
"Oh please Lord, let him be safe," I whisper beneath my breath, tryin' to shield the fact that I spoke.
If daddy were to know... My thoughts trail as I think of daddy. If we were short handed one more, we wouldn't have nough' slaves to beat Mr. Granger. Daddy'd be shamed for lettin' a slave go. Even daddy's cotton production would be down. We could grow broke and turn into them white trash.
My brain turns into a messy slob as I try to figure out my thoughts. I can't be prayin' for no slave. That ain't right. If he does run away, the dogs should catch 'em. But I don't pray to God askin' for that.
Time ticks by, the moon movin' from view, when I close my eyes. Jus' as my unconscious mind starts to take over I have one last thought- one last prayer. I wish that the slave hadn't run away at all
