It’s full moon but dark. I see the gnarled wrought iron fence, not taller than six feet. I hopped the fence easily anyone could have. It wasnt the architechture of the house, it was the intricate society of slave county that kept people on one side. Even hundreds of years later i was the only one willing to cross the line without permission. Lingering at the top, I turned around and looked at the black lettering on the piller grayed with age. Written in simple thin font “sims” no numbers no explanation. The trees were old but small and frail. They looked like runts, struggling, malnourished. Not fully grown but on the dying side of living. The earth, finely milled beneeth the smooth leather of my boots. Was void of weeds shrubs or any life. No birds, no animals even the spiders webs were abandoned by maker and prey. meekly woven, and forgotten years ago. The driveway is not long. This old slave house, white with the same porch that is eternally portrayed in our preconceived notions is small but haunts the end of the driveway like a thin skeleton. Behind the lace curtains in the second story, there must be something looking down on
me and my curiosity in disapproval. I don’t want to be the object of scrutiny. So I apologetically lower my head and back away slowly respectfully and obediently hoping to slip into the shadows unnoticed but not daring to turn my back to the house. I’ll take my chances with the darkness.