Ma says, thick and teary.

It is August 28, 2021.

We are sitting in her car, parked on the lot that used to be my grandparents’ home.

14 years to the day since Grandad transitioned and just one year since Aunt Lisa.

Ma points past the cinder blocks that outline the long gone house’s foundation,

“over there used to be a big ol’ plum tree that Daddy planted.”

Knees held by the earth,

she'd plait blades of grass into

a little Black girl’s circle of protection.

“Yelp, that’s how I learned how to braid. I would spend all day circling this house...braiding grass.”

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Not long after Grandad transitioned,

the house became a pile of black ash.

Remembering is a painful resurrection.

We ask Ma about Grandad’s time as the first Black police officer in Poplar Bluff, Missouri.

She grows quiet, folds her hands into a fence across her lap,

 “That’s not the first time that house caught on fire.”

She remembers escaping as flames swelled behind her.

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We have many questions about our family history but don’t wanna press Ma.

Instead we spent a few August afternoons at the Poplar Bluff Municipal Library where we microfiched for articles connected to Grandad’s time serving and protecting.

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Eyes blurry from the screen and the tiny print, we’d take breaks by sitting at Grandad’s lot.

Eating lunches Ma had made, we rolled down the windows and allowed our memories to sprout Grandad’s house back into existence. 

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