It all (happen) very quickly. One moment we (sit) at the dinner table, the next the molotov cocktail (come) crashing through the window, bursting on the floor. There (be) flames everywhere, there (be) broken glass everywhere. My little sister (scream) while my mother (try) to stop the fire with water. It (not work). The carpet (burn) now. My father finally (react): “Get out!” he shouted, “To the back door, now!” Then he (grab) my sister’s hand and (run). Mom and I (go) after him.
“Why (this, happen)?” I (ask).
Perhaps I (talk) to my father, perhaps I wasn’t. I still (not know.) But it (be) my father who (answer), the reflection of the burning cross in his eyes. The reflection of the cross that (burn) right there in front of us.
“It ‘s that they (not like) black people here.” My dad’s voice (be) as cold as the Mississippi night (be) hot.
That voice never (leave) me. It (be) with me now as I (write) these lines, so many years later. I (go) north, I (study), now I (work) as a teacher. But still that cross (burn), and my father’s tears (still, flow).