The carved headstones we pass at the edge of the cemetery were made of polished, reflective granite. The engravings look freshly cut, even though they are ten, twenty, thirty years old. Some of them even have fresh flowers. Most grave markers are simple, flat stone squares with metal nameplates. Some are taller, solid rectangles atop stone slabs. There’s even a courtyard of mausoleums, for some rich family, probably. But as we get closer to the middle, the markers are getting older, changing shapes. Mildew-stained obelisks, thinner tombstones with two and three sets of names on them. Long names, births and deaths in the early 1900s and late 1800s.

Patricia walks us past older gray headstones onto a narrow path that leads to another section of graves. “The cemetery is managed by the town, and everyone buried here was associated with the university or town in one way or another.”

“Like deans and professors?”

“Mhm-hm,” she hums. “Originally, it was used to bury students who died while enrolled, and faculty. That’s the oldest section. The first was a young DiPhi boy buried in the late 1700s. Five more sections were added after that. A mix of faculty and staff, town philanthropists and donors, famous alumni and the like.”

We come to a stop at an ancient-looking stone wall that runs the width of the cemetery.

“Notice anything?”

“I thought you said no quizzes.” She tilts her head, her mouth folded in a secret smile, and it reminds me that Patricia holds all the cards here. And they’re cards I want.

I scan the way we’ve come. We’ve been walking on dirt paths, pounded flat and hard and made smooth over time by many feet. They serve a dual purpose: they silently direct visitors to avoid walking directly on any of the graves, but they also separate sections of the cemetery. Beyond the boundaries of the cemetery, cars whoosh by toward the football stadium, but other than that, the only sounds are birds and wind. The Bell Tower erupts in Westminster Quarters. When it ends, a lone bell tells us it’s two fifteen.

I stare at her, confused, but take another look at where we’ve stopped walking. On the other side over the stone wall is a grove. “There’s only a few stone markers here.” I point to a back corner, shaded by a low tree. “A few tombstones over there. It’s barely filled.”

“Oh, it’s filled. This wall marks where the segregation begins. All the Black folks are buried in these two sections.” She tips her head toward the grass beyond the wall.

My stomach twists at her words. This is not what I imagined therapy to be. This is not what anyone’s therapy looks like, I’m fairly positive. She wraps her shoulders in the shawl and continues.