He rises and places a kiss on her forehead. She waits until he’s out the door before her resolve crumbles. The tears fall rapidly and she’s unable to catch her breath. She thought returning home would diminish her pain somewhat, but the turn of events from the morning has made her a puddle of mess. She didn’t know whether to be alarmed or comforted in the fact that her husband knew all along about her past. Not once did he ever mention it – always giving her the space to come into her own. Her space to find her everyday norm and purpose. She loved him fiercely for that. He never, not once, judged her. After several minutes she wipes her face and rises, making her way out the door. Hitting the porch, she takes off like a jaguar running madly through the trees blindly – on instinct. The pounding of her heart sounded like the old spirituals her Mama would play. She felt the land calling her as she pushed herself further towards her ancestor’s burial temple. Reaching the outskirt of the sacred ground, she stops and removes her shoes. The slight sway of the magnolias and weeping willows welcome her in. Winding through the headstones she makes her way to her parents and Mama’s resting place. Dropping to the ground the sobs turns to wails. For more than an hour the winds cry along with her. “Mama I feel so lost – so broken”, she cries. “I don’t know, I can’t seem to put the pieces back together. How”, she sobs, “tell me how I’m going to do this. My memories bring me no comfort. They’re gone. Help me – show me”. The wind picked up its pace sending a slow rumble through sanctuary, almost like a whisper – years of strength, unity among the generations. The force hit her soul like a hammer. Instantly the tears dried. She rose to her feet, her focus steady on the plaques before her. Turning she makes her way back to the house with a different attitude in her gait. Her face, not at peace but a compromising solemn.