The setting sun sank in the cotton field, which was backlit, and beyond the field, the family of slaves of the servants was rushing to pick up the open cotton as much as possible. Don’t get wet with the night dew. And from the other side of the farm road leading to the mansion in the field, a young Bob (4, 5 years old?) Waves his hand, notices me, and runs hard while calling my name in a loud voice.
Hey. Jack! Over here me!
Everything is shining brilliantly, the cotton fruits in the field are popping, and the cotton inside is shining like gold in the sunlight.
Crispy hair, white teeth, and a happy smile as if you had found a treasure. He is shining as if he had a golden light on his back.
The sky, the air, the earth, even the dust, everything.
Since he died, I remembered this casual little childhood in my heart like a very precious and happy treasure of my life, and occasionally I cried.
We hid in the field, waited for the cotton berries to pop, and when we popped two or three at a stretch, it was kind of strange, and we remember rolling around and laughing.
When did you start?
He came to call me a young master.
Don’t call me master! but That bothered me.
There was a deep and big groove between him and me that I could never easily jump over.
It was such an era.
His words are imprinted on my chest.
“Slave children, not cowardly.”
I always thought he was like Samson to me.
He may not have said it directly.
He is a really strong man.
I think I wanted to be that way too.
Yeay.
Nay.
That Words with an accent echo in my head.