“Have you forgotten me?by Nancy B. BrewerThe bricks I laid or the stitches I sewed.I was the one that made the quilt; a drop of blood still shows from my needle prick.Your wedding day in lace and satin, in a dress once worn by me.I loaned your newborn baby my christening gown, a hint of lavender still preserved. Do you know our cause, the battles we won and the battles we lost?When our soldiers marched home did you shout hooray! Or shed a tear for the fallen sons. What of the fields we plowed, the cotton, the tobacco and the okra, too.There was always room at my table for one more, Fried chicken, apple pie, biscuits and sweet ice tea.A time or two you may have heard our stories politely told.Some of us are famous, recorded on the pages of history.Still, most of us left this world without glory or acknowledgment. We were the first to walk the streets you now call home,Perhaps you have visited my grave and flowers left,but did you hear me cry out to you? Listen, my child, to the voices of your ancestors. Take pride in our accomplishments; find your strength in our suffering. For WE are not just voices in the wind, WE are a living part of YOU!”

“Listen, my child, to the voices of your ancestors. Take pride in our accomplishments; find your strength in our suffering. For WE are not just voices in the wind, WE are a living part of YOU”

“Perhaps you have visited my grave and flowers left, but did you hear me cry out to you!”

“A few years have gone and come around when we were sittin' at our favorite spot in town and you looked at me, got down on one knee. Take me back to the time when we walked down the aisle; the whole town came and our mammas cried. And you said "I do.", and I did, too. Take me home where we met so many years before; we'll rock our babies on the very front porch. After all this time, you and I. And I'll be eighty-seven you'll be eighty-nine, I'll still look at you like the stars that shine. In the sky. Oh, my my my.”

“Someday, Jessica, he says quietly, you will stand before me in this very room, as we prepare for some function whichwe both dread, for we have been to so many in our years together, and you will smile and reach up to adjust my crooked tie, as you always do. And one of our children—perhaps our first son—will tug at your dress, demanding our attention. Then I will kiss you, and reach down to lift our child, thinking, How did I come to be so happy?”

“But you were only an idea to me before, an abstraction that lived in my mind and called forth its appropriate response. It was that abstraction I stabbed. But now, for the first time, I see you are a man like me. I thought of your hand-grenades, of your bayonet, of your rifle; now I see your wife and your face and our fellowship. Forgive me, comrade. We always see it too late. Why do they never tell us that you are poor devils like us, that your mothers are just as anxious as ours, and that we have the same fear of death, and the same dying and the same agony - Forgive me, comrade; how could you be my enemy? If we threw away these rifles and this uniform you could be my brother just like Kat and Albert. Take twenty years of my life, comrade, and stand up - take more, for I do not know what I can even attempt to do with it now.”