AUGUST 1958
AUGUST 1958
I live at home
like I always did—
wake to bird songs,
hoe in the garden
while Sidney sits in the grass.
I shuck corn,
pluck a chicken now and then,
help Mama cook.
I watch sparrows feed
their new-hatched babies
in the gnarly apple tree.
For two weeks I watch—
and still
no Richard.
Richard isn’t supposed
to come over.
We are living a lot of
suppose-tos.
But is he really not going to see me?
Is he relieved?
Bye bye, Bean.
Is that what he’s thinking?
Garnet says,
“Be cool, Millie.
You just got home.
He doesn’t wanna go back to jail.
And neither do you.”
So I wait.
I play with Sidney.
I WAIT for this new baby to be born.
I WAIT for our court date.
I weed the string beans and turnips.
I hoe between cornstalks.
I knit a baby bonnet.
Sidney’s the only thing that holds my mind.
I can’t stop thinking,
WHAT IF . . .
What if Richard is done with me?
What if I have this baby alone?
What if I end up all alone?
One day, I’m out washing collards
at the well
like I always do.
When I hear a car.
I turn around slow
hoping I’m well hid
by bushes.
Once you get arrested
in your bed
it’s hard to be easy.
But it’s Ray Green’s car.
And who should pop out
but my husband,
Richard Loving.
I stand, smile.
He smiles.
toward the backyard,
and we meet behind the house
away from the road.
He wraps his arms around me
and lifts his chin
so I slide my cheek against his neck.
I remember what a good fit we are.
He pets me
all the way down my back.
He turns me sideways
and strokes my belly.
Tears seep out, slide down my cheeks
but they are happy tears
that wet his shirt.
We still haven’t said one thing
but he’s told me everything
I need to know.
Finally he says,
“I’m not supposed to be here.”
“I know.”
“Ray just dropped me by.
I can’t drive here, Bean.
If someone sees my car—”
“I know.”
Ray drives right up into the yard,
to behind the house, yells,
“COME ON, MAN.”
I let him go.
He says, “I’ll be back.”
He climbs in the car,
hunkers down,
and they drive off.