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"Books’ll learn ya," she said, her ol’ eyes twinkling with mischief and merriment.
I laughed, remembering it was my favorite saying as a child while carrying the children’s books around the yard, riding an old stick pony, pretending to be a Kentucky Pack Horse librarian.
Candlelight flickered; scents of piney woodsmoke cozied the cabin. I dipped my needle in and out of the fabric, laddering tight stitches up the quilt, agonizing over my family being ripped away from me.
After a few moments, I set aside the quilt and picked up the poetry book Miss Foster had given me, losing myself in the pages. Books’ll save you, my troubled heart knew.
I followed him to the door. "Mr. Morgan, none of it seems fair."
"What’s that, Honey?"
"The laws, sir. The man-made ones about love and marriage. I wanted to ask you when they’ll change the miscegenation laws so folk can love who they want to love. Why do they think it’s wrong for mine or any folk to love another person?" For me to love who I want. I swallowed the words, suddenly thinking about Francis, and any future I might have with a boy snuffed out, then lightly touched my lips. It was still there, fevered and fresh, the same as when he kissed me in the booth.
"Mr. Morgan, they ain’t hating, they’re loving. Don’t seem right the men makin’ the laws are ignorin’ God’s law. Do you think they’ll change it, Mr. Morgan?"
He stared at me thoughtfully and, after a long moment, said, "Though it rarely happens fast enough and not near as quick as it should, Honey, I expect like all ugly laws, change will come."
There was a sober finality in our brief goodbye, and we all felt it. Our future together was about to be erased, the same as in 1936 when the sheriff over in Troublesome erased my papa and mama’s marriage and then the courts banished him from entering Kentucky again for twenty-five years. What was coming loomed bigger, bolder, and the fear seized hold, punching hard at my bones.
I thought about Mama in prison, how different she was treated for being different. But here I’d grown up watching the good bookfolk welcome her with open arms and shout with joy every time she rode in with her treasures. Now here I was able to bring the books like she had, and my heart filled with pride and love for the printed word. Though Mama and I were the last of the Blues, the very last of our kind, and different from others, the books united every one of us.
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