Her hand is cold, but I don't notice really. She don't say nothin' but I can tell in her eyes, that she ain't happy no more. No matter my hand latched on hers, she ain't happy. A sad feelin' creeps up my spine and for a matter of minutes I worry that I'll cry in front of 'er.
I dunno how long we stay there. I jus' watch the tears fall from her eyes, drop... drop...drop... and try to say words that don't come. Nothin' I can say will help.
Cecile pull away first, givin' a small smile toward me. She can hear daddy's voice floatin' down from upstairs, makin' his way to us. She don't say nothin' when she leave, walkin' from the kitchen fast. I don't ask where she goes, it don't matter really.
"Corinne, you down here darlin'?"
To daddy I don't respond, starin' where Cecile'd left.
"Corinne, you in the kitchen? Have Cecile make some tea from the mistress."
At the mention of her name, I grow cold. Daddy ain't right, he knew she'd been married and he sold 'em anyways. He could've sold anotha slave, not 'em. Not her husban'.
"I'll do it daddy, Cecile is cleanin' up elsewhere," I say, standin' up from my spot. I find the tea and get to work on makin' some.
I resist tellin' daddy 'bout Cecile, rememberin' that Sameul said I'd squeal. I ain't gonna say notin'.
I make the tea, passin' daddy in the parlor and sayin' notin' to 'em. Not even a mornin'. He jus' mumbles somtin' to himself, shakin' 'is head at my antics. Once he can see me no longer, I change my course and walk ta the slave chambers. I ain't gonna see the mistress, no sir.
I set the tea next to a small child, whose mother is on the fields. He shies away from my touch and I see a bruise on his arm. I wonder if it's from our hands or theirs.
"It okay, I ain't gonna hurt you," I say to him, "I made some tea."
He pulls 'is knees closer to his body, real tight, too scared to look at me.
"It ain't bad, I swear. You gonna like it," I promise, noddin' to the tea in my hands. It takes time, but eventually he opens up to me, drinkin' all thirsty. He has rags on his skin, and his eyes are too old for 'is body. He don't never speak while I sit with 'em, but he laughs once. I spend most of the day, talkin' to the boy who won't respond, feelin' bad for a slave.
I dunno how long we stay there. I jus' watch the tears fall from her eyes, drop... drop...drop... and try to say words that don't come. Nothin' I can say will help.
Cecile pull away first, givin' a small smile toward me. She can hear daddy's voice floatin' down from upstairs, makin' his way to us. She don't say nothin' when she leave, walkin' from the kitchen fast. I don't ask where she goes, it don't matter really.
"Corinne, you down here darlin'?"
To daddy I don't respond, starin' where Cecile'd left.
"Corinne, you in the kitchen? Have Cecile make some tea from the mistress."
At the mention of her name, I grow cold. Daddy ain't right, he knew she'd been married and he sold 'em anyways. He could've sold anotha slave, not 'em. Not her husban'.
"I'll do it daddy, Cecile is cleanin' up elsewhere," I say, standin' up from my spot. I find the tea and get to work on makin' some.
I resist tellin' daddy 'bout Cecile, rememberin' that Sameul said I'd squeal. I ain't gonna say notin'.
I make the tea, passin' daddy in the parlor and sayin' notin' to 'em. Not even a mornin'. He jus' mumbles somtin' to himself, shakin' 'is head at my antics. Once he can see me no longer, I change my course and walk ta the slave chambers. I ain't gonna see the mistress, no sir.
I set the tea next to a small child, whose mother is on the fields. He shies away from my touch and I see a bruise on his arm. I wonder if it's from our hands or theirs.
"It okay, I ain't gonna hurt you," I say to him, "I made some tea."
He pulls 'is knees closer to his body, real tight, too scared to look at me.
"It ain't bad, I swear. You gonna like it," I promise, noddin' to the tea in my hands. It takes time, but eventually he opens up to me, drinkin' all thirsty. He has rags on his skin, and his eyes are too old for 'is body. He don't never speak while I sit with 'em, but he laughs once. I spend most of the day, talkin' to the boy who won't respond, feelin' bad for a slave.
