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godblessthischild · 2 years ago

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My grandparents raised me after my parents died from smallpox. I was barely 3 months old when my grandmother and grandfather took me in. My mother's siblings had families of their own and couldn't afford another child to feed. According to my aunt, I was spoiled to death by my grandparents. I ate better than my cousins and had good quality coats in the winter. My grandparents were well liked by everyone in the village, including b the white folk for unspoken reasons. As a result, I was able to get away a lot of things that would get other black children in trouble.

I wish could remember those days. I wish I could remember my grandparents' faces.

All I remember is a big, two-story white house, surrounded by trees. A long driveway that was lined by big oak trees on both sides led up to the front of the house.

However, something happened when I was 10. My older cousins would tell me that there was a fire at the big house (which is what they called the white house I lived near). Everyone would whisper how I was found in the back of the 1000 acre property in snow, covered in ash and blood staring at the blaze. I did not speak a word as the neighbors picked me up and rushed me to my aunt's home a few miles down the road. But when I they tried to clean me up, I screamed as if I was being burnt. One of the local medicine men gave me something to sleep, which allowed my cousins to clean me up. They saw I had no cuts or burns. When I woke up a few days later, I couldn't remember who I was or what had happened. My grandparents were found in the rubble along with their masters huddled in the cellar with guns and swords surrounding them.

I was the only survivor. According to everyone in the village of Wetipquin, I was either the demon who sentenced the whole family to death or a blessed child protected by an angel. My aunts, uncles and cousins were split into these two factions. Those who thought was a cursed child would claim that I feigned my memory loss to avoid suspicion. They would not belive a 10 year old would escape a fire with no injuries. Those who thought I was child protected by heavenly beings refused to belive that someone brought up by my respected grandparents would commit such a crime.

To this day, at the age of 25, I don't remember a damn thing. I remember my grandparents' burial when I was 10 years old. My uncle was the undertaker and preacher. I remember the damp cold sneaking through my shoes and my uncle covering my grandparents bodies with dirt. I remember my aunt holding a rosary, and giving me a cold stare as she counted each bead and muttered something in French under her breath.

Sometimes I think that my grandparents would appear in my dreams; I think I could see their faces clearly then. But when I wake up, all I could remember is a dark small women with long straight black hair. She may have been my grandmother. She may not have been. But I'd like to think that she was. Otherwise, I'd have nothing else to hold on to from that part of my life.

#godblessthischild #story #genealogy #historical fiction

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