It rained the entire time we dug the little ditch.
Rained pretty hard.
But we had already waited hours for it to stop,
and the cat wrapped in a towel in the garage could not wait.

My daughter, not much bigger at the time than
the doll she cradled in her arms,
escorted me outside, as if the precious moments
from back door, to backyard were
more valuable to her than any gold we might
one day discover, or any dreams we might fulfill.

Thirteen. Pumpkin lived to an unlucky number,
I realized, as mud stuck to the bottoms of
our shoes like suction cups.
I lightly pushed the shovel into the mud with my foot.
My daughter began to say a prayer.

“Our farther, who art in heaven, hollow be thy name.”
I did not correct her. I dug, placed Pumpkin and the blanket
in the ditch that filled up with water like a bowl.
I filled the ditch with mud.

I loved Pumpkin. I still love Pumpkin.
When cold nights came my daughter wore her like a shawl.
Maybe soon we will forget all this.
But I don’t think life and death are ever forgotten.
Even as we die ourselves, I believe we think of those we have long forgotten,
And they in turn remember us.
As we stood in the rain in our own thoughts,
I leaned and pushed the miniature tombstone into the ground.

We were on a road trip
in a blue station wagon
through the oppressive heat
and the barrage of windshield bugs
of the southern states. 

I played with toy soldiers
in the back where I bounced
around with the luggage. 

Dad saw the rest stop up ahead,
a Howard Johnson’s advertising
24 flavors of ice cream,
so we pulled into the lot. 

I ran ahead to the lobby bathrooms
and started to push through the door
of the men’s room when
a big hand grabbed me by
my collar and yanked me back hard. 

“Not that one, boy,” the man said gruffly.
I looked up thinking I had accidentally
pushed open the women’s room door.
But the sign above the door said, ‘Colored’. 

‘What the heck does that mean?’
I wondered when my Dad walked up and
told the man to take his hand off my collar. 

“Just saving him embarrassment,” the
man said in a tense drawl, to which my
Dad said, “You should be embarrassed.” 

For a moment I stared up at the old
wood sign above the door, all capitals,
green letters, black background, with faded,
badly chipped paint like you’d see on a gate of a
50-year old farmhouse. 

It was the late 1960s and the sign
had a defiant look to it.
I glanced to my right and there was
a black and white photo of Governor
George Wallace on the wall,
looking just as defiant.
“We’re leaving,” my Dad said. 

I remember being afraid of that sign.
I couldn’t get it out of my mind
as we got back in the station wagon
and we drove fifteen miles down the
road to a small restaurant with a mixed crowd. 

I ran into that bathroom faster
than an Olympic sprinter.
But even as I did I understood
what my father had done.
I was very – very – proud of him. 

I was afraid of that sign,
but it helped me to understand
that we should always be afraid of that sign.