When I came home from Charleston

with my brand new dashing husband,

Daddy had the slaves line the path

from the gate to the front porch;

and as we walked through the ranks

each one stepped up with

the nosegays they had picked—

awkward bunches of wildflowers.

I was laughing, gathering up bouquets

and tossing them to Louis.

We were almost to the porch

when suddenly there appeared this . . .

this rose. One red rose,

thrust right into the path so we had to stop.

I recognised him right away.

We hadn’t seen each other

since Daddy sent him to the fields.

We used to sneak out to Mama’s

old cutting garden; it was overgrown

and the roses had run particularly wild!

One day he covered me in rose petals,

then blew them off, one by one.

He’d never seen anything like them

back in Africa.

And there he stood, all grown up,

with one red rose held out

like it was a piece of him

growing straight from his fist.

“What a lovely tribute to the bride!” I said—

I suppose there’s no sense in talking about

your duty to the institution of marriage.

I made one mistake—Louis.

I don’t have to go on living it.

Oh, there’s where you’re wrong,

Amalia Jennings. Some mistakes

don’t right themselves that easy.

Some mistakes you live with until you die.

Amalia’s Christmas present—

fancy new riding spurs!

Won’t they make a special

“christening” present

for the little bitty baby

to tuck in with its blanket!