Ask her your question, and she’ll tell you the truth. She’s too old for anything else. Her door is always open to neighbors, especially the children. These days, when she gazes out her window, she doesn’t see tenement walls and broken windows, but the plowed fields, and woods beyond, of the plantation in Kentucky, where she was born and raised in bondage. In her bittersweet reverie, she’s not sitting solitary in her kitchenette apartment, but communing with generations of her kin across the dusty barn yard, and down in the quarters.
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Bronzeville Moods 