Remembering Emmet Till
Let me peer out at the world through your lens.…
Let me see how your blue is my turquoise
and my orange is your gold.—Naomi Shihab Nye
Decades drift by—life a crowded stream.
Memories, like ripples, dissipate—
sights and sounds, smells and touch, deleted
so not to overwhelm with too much recollection.
We age—revisit erased images.
I see meaning now, in fields of cotton—
bolls nestled in dried bracts, sharp as razor blades,
harvested by bare fingers
The air heavy with restraint, as silent men,
hats in hand, followed local protocol,
stood off in roadside ditches
until our car passed by.
This girl from somewhere in the North
—intrigued by a world she didn’t know—
tried to socialize with those
expected to keep their distance.
I recall the look on Big Sam’s face
when I showed up behind the main house
—alone—
where he was cooking catfish in an iron kettle
and I, unknowing, broke the silent code,
asked him friendly questions.
Now I know
that look
was fear.