The powder magazine at Fort Pulaski is a small and empty room except for us. Made from special thin red bricks made by hand. Made by slaves, the tour guide points out. My three-year-old watches while the guide tells us how many bricks built this room now filled with sweating tourists, says it’s amazing to think about & I file that under Weddings at Plantations, along with Subdivisions Named Plantation, Ghost Stories Where Slaves Die Because They Deserve To, The Woman Who Told Me I Date Black Men Too After Seeing Me Kiss My Husband. I do not want to be on this tour. I want to stand near the hundred-year-old fig tree big as a ballroom with the knotty arms of cartoon witches & leaves like big green plates. My son wants to follow, point & I love him so I grip his shoulders tighter, notice again how the old man in the group stares at us with his jaw set hard even when my child says hi, hello! I want to say what’s your fucking deal, sir but instead whisper let’s go pretend that tree is a monster & we go. We find a little room under the branches. We decide it’s a good monster.
Claire Nelson is beckoning you over.
