The road circled the periphery of Kipsen. On this route a bed-and-breakfast had also been built, most likely catering to those who wanted to visit the Woodsman place but couldn’t afford the overpriced cottages. Branches hung low enough that she worried some of their leaves would scratch against the car. She came to a sign marking the Woodsman Plantation as well as an arrow directing traffic. A gate had been built around the entire property except for a nearby parking lot built for visitors. The parking lot was full of cars with plates from all over the country. Not just from the South but from Texas. From Mexico. She saw a plate from Maine and wondered what kind of stories someone from Maine would come expecting to hear.

As Mira got out of the car, a family trotted along in front of her and she decided to follow behind. They looked like they were on vacation. The wife sipped from a large fountain soda most likely bought from the gas station up the road. The husband and wife wore matching fanny packs around their waists. They had a daughter, a small child who couldn’t keep up walking so at one point they stopped and the father picked her up, carrying her the rest of the way on his hip. Mira walked behind them, although she made sure to keep a decent distance, all the while hoping they wouldn’t turn around and see her—a black girl in a crowd of white.

People gathered and followed along the path. A busload of children emptied into the parking lot, and they ran past her, hurrying to beat everyone else inside. The chaperones called after them and Mira heard their accents, German, and a profound sadness came over her at the realization that this place would be their only experience of this history, a whitewashed house and grounds cleansed of the lives of the slaves who built them.