Indigo sort of nodded her head, but all she remembered was that even her mother was scared of white folks, and that she still wrote out the word Kotex on a piece of torn paper wrapped up in a dollar bill to give to Mr. Lucas round to the pharmacy. This, though Indigo insisted Mr. Lucas must know what it is, ’cause he ordered it for his store so all the other colored women could have it when they needed it. After all, even her mother said, this bleeding comes without fail to every good girl once a month. Sometimes her mother made no sense at all, Indigo thought with great consternation. On the other hand, as a gesture of goodwill & in hopes that her littlest girl would heed her warnings, the mother allowed Indigo one more public jaunt with Miranda, who was, according to Indigo, fraught with grief that their outings were to be curtailed.

Weeping willows curled up from the earth, reaching over Indigo & Miranda on this their last walk in a long friendship, a simple, laughing friendship. Miranda thought the weeping willows were trying to hug them, to pull them up to the skies where whether you were real or not didn’t matter. Indigo, in her most grown-up voice, said, “No, they want us to feel real special on this day, that’s all.” Miranda wasn’t convinced, and neither was Indigo, who managed to take the longest walk to the drugstore that her family had ever known.

After following the willows’ trellises till there were no more, Indigo reverently passed by Mrs. Yancey’s, back round to Sister Mary Louise’s, down to the wharf where she & Miranda waved to her father who was living in the sea with mermaids, & then ’cross to the railroad tracks looking for Uncle John. Indigo liked colored folks who worked with things that took ’em some place: colored folks on ships, trains, trolleys, & horses. Yoki was a horse. Uncle John did go places, and after that night with Mrs. Yancey in the street, Indigo figured him mighty powerful.

In between two lone railroad cars was Uncle John’s wagon. Sequestered from ill-wishers & the wind, there he was chatting away with the air, the cars, or Yoki. Sometimes men of Color disappear into the beauty of the light, especially toward day’s end. It’s like clouds take on color & get down on the ground & talk to you, or the stars jump in some black man’s body & shine all over you. Uncle John was looking like that to Indigo’s mind, just brushing away, leaving Yoki’s coat glimmering like dusk.

“Good evening, Uncle John.”

“Humph.” Mr. Henderson turned round knowing full well who’d come calling, but not wanting to let on. “Oh. If it ain’t my girl Indigo. & who’s that ya got witcha?”