19
W
e didn’t get much further that night. First names and a reference to a 12-year-old boy with chickens wasn’t much to go on, even with the power of the Internet at our fingers. Still, we made a complete list of the names of the people who were slaves on the Popson places, and Mom photocopied the list for each of us.
Then, it was time for everyone to go home. Mom said so, and I was grateful. After everyone left – Javier made sure to stay longer than Blanch did – Mom and I made hot tea and sat side by side on the sofa, her arm draped over my shoulder.
“Mama?”
She squeezed me closer.
“Why does this keep happening to me? I mean I’m not anyone special. I don’t know why I keep getting pulled into this stuff. This is hard.”
Mom laid her head on mine.
“I kind of understand the cemetery
