DECEMBER 1964
The children play outside.
Richard has made them a tire swing.
When it’s warm enough
they can run barefoot and not
worry about broken glass in the streets.
But today they put on shoes.
No more city sounds.
No more sirens and honking.
Instead
owls hoot at night,
crows caw in daytime,
cardinals flash through the yard.
The farmhouse comes with cats
and Daddy loaned us Jack.
Sidney chases the black cat,
and Jack, barking to high heaven,
chases Sidney.
Don chases Jack.
Everyone is laughing.
Maybe even all that barking
is Jack
laughing.
for the stove.
Richard is at work.
I feel a huge weight
lift off my shoulders—
like I’ve been carrying
a big ole boulder around
for six years—
and I just now
let it roll off.
I do keep my eye on the road
and get ready to gather the children
if the sheriff drives up.
I remind myself,
if we get arrested,
they’ll get us out in one hour.
Five hours at the most,
they say.
Living here
is worth that risk.
I enroll Sidney in school,
across the line in Essex County
because it’s the closest to
our farmhouse.
When I go to pick him up
after school
the Essex County sheriff rolls up, says,
“They might look the other way in King and Queen,
but here in Essex,
we ever see you
together with your husband,
we’ll arrest you.”
I’ll find a school in King and Queen.
We’ll have to drive farther to get him there.
Maybe we’ll get bus service—
but there aren’t always buses
for colored kids.