It was covered in a thousand little eyes of jet that winked at me in the last bit of sun. The woman carried an enormous beaded handbag-it, too, was dusty but looked rich. At his neck was a velvet bow tie, come undone on the journey. The boy's mourning suit was dusty but perfectly fit to his form. Embroidered on the bodice of her dress were a dozen black lilies, done in cord. They were both dressed in mourning clothes. A boy, about twelve or thirteen, followed. 'Quick,' was all Mama said, and the woman came down off the seat. I opened my mouth, but before I could call for her, my mother rushed to the door, Lenore behind her. But once it passed the bowed-over walnut tree, the woman at the seat snapped her whip, and the mule began to move a little faster, until it was upon us. When it first turned onto our road, the cart was moving slowly. Usually, it was Mama's patients, walking or limping or running to her office. The house was set up on a rise, so we could always see who was coming. No one respects a man, no matter how rich and distinguished-looking, who stinks of pig scat. Our house was set back-Grandfather, my mother's father, had made his money raising pigs and kept the house and pens away from everyone else to protect his neighbors, and his reputation, from the undermining smell of swine. In those days, the road to our house was narrow and only just cut through the brush. I heard a rumbling come close and looked up, and I could see, down the road, a mule plodding slow and steady with a covered wagon, a ribbon of dust trailing behind it. Once I'd wrenched it off, I stripped the bark and rubbed the wet wood underneath on the flagstone, pressing the green into rock. I'd broken a stick off the mulberry bush, so young it had resisted the pull of my fist. Even on the hottest days, when my linen collar stuck to the back of my neck and the belly of Lenore's apron was stained with sweat, a mess of logs and twigs was lit up down there, waiting. That was the rule in Mama's office-the fire was kept burning from dawn till after dinner, and we never let it go out completely. Mama and her nurse, Lenore, were in her office-Mama with her little greasy glasses on the tip of her nose, balancing the books, and Lenore banking the fire. The time I saw Mama raise a man from the dead, it was close to dusk.

'It still didn't help him much, my love,' she told me. I saw my mother raise a man from the dead.

Liberte by kaitlyn greenidge