Sugar

Since Emancipation, there’re not enough workers. Almost everyone young enough, without gnarled, crinkly brown hands, has gone north.

“Some folks are scared to leave,” said Ma. “They say, ‘The bad I know is better than the bad I don’t. They don’t believe they have strength left for adventure.”

“We’re ready for adventure. We’re strong.”

“That’s right,” said Ma, hugging me close.

We waited for Pa, who was sold right after I was born, to come back to us. We were going to run away. Head north. We waited and waited. When the war started, Ma whispered, “Pa’s fighting for the Union. I just know it. Helping to free us.” We waited for him, proud, hoping. The war ended. President Lincoln won. Still, we waited. Five years of freedom and Pa still didn’t come.

Then Ma got sick and died. Her strength drained like water.

I’m ten now.

I’m not a slave anymore.

I’m free.

Except from sugar.