Sitting on the low stool, I watch her knead the biscuit dough, her hands strong, even covered in wrinkles and with knuckles swollen with arthritis. She is humming a song from her childhood, one she says she learned from her Grand-mere.

“Come, Cora, your turn.” She smiles across at me. Rising, I move around the old table and thrust my hands in the bowl as she wipes hers on the apron she has tied at her waist. Sitting in her chair, she pulls out her pipe and lights it, and the fragrant tobacco smoke tickles my nose. Her eyes look out the window at the bayou. “I must teach you the things that were taught to me.” I nod, wanting to learn them.

“Grand-mere, tell me about the family, about the women.” I have heard the story many times. My mother scoffs at it, telling her to stop living in the past, to stop believing in nonsense. She doesn’t have the sight. Grand-mere says it has turned her bitter and resentful.

She stands and moves to my side as I roll out the biscuits, placing them on the old pan stained black from the years of use. When I finish, she covers them with a towel.

“Come. For that story, we need a comfortable seat.” She leads me out onto the porch of her shack. It doesn’t look like much and is really only one big room but it has stood here for over a hundred years, and magic flows through the walls. She sits in her rocking chair that Grand-pere carved for her as a wedding gift, the quilt her mother gave her hanging on the back. I climb into the swing, and my leg dangles so my toe can push on the floor smoothed by other feet over the years. The ancestors listen as she begins.

“Your skin shows the blend of those that came before.” She points at me with her pipe. “You must always be proud, no matter what.” My eyes drop. I don’t look at that skin. The shade has caused me a lot of pain. “I know what they say, girl.” Her voice is both angry and sad. “They said it all to me. You’ve seen the pictures, and before pictures, paintings, all the way back until the beginning. It started on Saint Dominique. The first of us arrived there in 1815 or ‘20, and she caught the eye of a plantation owner who bought her for his home instead of the fields. She was to take care of his mother, he said, but that was not her only duty. The mother taught her French and English during the day, and at night, he raped her.” I flinch at the image.

“It didn’t take long, of course, before she was heavy with child. A daughter was born, dark like her mother with green eyes. The mother had told her about the family, how they were French, but years and years ago, their people had come from Scotland. The child was the first with the sight. Her mother hid her gift, knowing what would happen to her if anyone found out.” She continues talking about the lives of generations of women on the island, each smarter but still trapped as slaves. “Two hundred years, five generations, each having the vision of revolt and death, they bided their time, suffering in silence, waiting for their moment. Finally, it came. As plantations burned around them, the master and his family boarded a boat, bringing their slaves with them. They landed here in Louisiana. The mixing with the masters had created a beautiful girl with light skin and blue eyes. It didn’t take long before she drew the eye of a young white man.”

I know this part well -- they fell in love and he bought her then freed her. They made their home out near here in the bayou so they didn’t have to play a part for society. He refused to marry any other than her and so he never married. They had children, two boys and a girl. None had the sight and all lived free. She stops her story and stares out at the water. I wait to see if she is going to continue, but she is lost in her memories. I keep swinging, my gaze on my light skin, forgetting the hurt it has caused me. I don’t mind it, but others do. My family does. It’s not my fault only the girl with the gift is fair. Every single one of us. It doesn’t matter the color of the parents, those with the sight show our mixed heritage, making us stick out. Grand-mere says it has always been the same, we are neither white enough nor black enough. Someday, I hope we will just be enough.

Grand-mere flickers, and I blink, rubbing my eyes. She is back to normal, rocking and smoking her pipe. Weird. The sun is getting low before she pushes up, making her way inside. Soon the evening air is filled with the symphony of the swamp and the scent of biscuits. My stomach growls just as she calls my name.