Back Where You Came From

9 Camille Dungy Back Where You Came From If you want to go back, take your first turn at the stop sign, left. Continue on. Still with your eyes masked. Still with the fresh-ginned cotton in your ears. It’s easy going where you came from. Pack a picnic. Fresh fruit and juice and fancy cheeses you can’t hoard. Eat it all along the way. To get back where you came from you’ve got to stay straight a long time. You’ll think you’ve gone too far, but your mind can’t be trusted. Let your femur guide you to the monument. Let your leg bone lead your knee bone to the alabaster angel in the churchyard. You are almost there. When you go, turn right at the angel who roosts over the stones. Right again at the big house in the hook of the road. This house is older than your family name. You wouldn’t know that. We’ve kept plenty people ’round the place to take care of things. It’s just been repainted. Take your mask off. Look, it’s white. When you’ve stopped at the crook in the road, you feel free to drop your load. Pull out the cotton. Stay awhile. They’ll bring you something shortly. The cold rust I am sipping, tasty with a sugar lump, is poured for us from a legendary cask—I recommend it over any other—aged, now, some hundred years. ...