My knees were punishing me. Creaking and moaning every time I bent down.
The years of picking and packing, stuffing and sewing; it wears down a body like mine.
Pap told me to come home. Said there was more food, better work, and new fickle girls to chase around.
His letter explained that times were changing and so should I. He even sent a map with perfect erect lines drawn on the back of a lease paper for land.
Trying and trying to get me back, he somehow failed.
I stayed in that wooden hut with the dirt piled into the corners. The one with my cot so ever neat that I slept in only 2 hours per night.
The hut where I had to share with 5 other men who snored and grunted like swines.

Despite all that, being here never bothered me.

Yes,
My hands cracked like the Grand canon.
My mind went wandering off without me.
But I would not budge from this place I now called a refuge for my soul.

I had been captured, sold, and worked for all I had.
Here, it was different.
They wanted me not needed me.

When I didn't come home Pap sent more letters. Said he was sorry that he didn't have a good life set up for me and sis. He wouldn't be able to persuade my mind to pack up and track back home to my former self.

I told him "all's good picking and packing, stuffing and sewing. My knees may hate me, but I don't mind them."