The book that I am writing about my family's "up from segregation" ed story starts off with a discovery of the "missing" bones of Black people unidentified. These were discovered under the land on which white people decided to build schools for Black children in 1930s Fla.

It is bad enough, I think, that white officials decided to build on top of a Black cemetery, but they told the grave diggers to only relocate the remains that were clearly marked by gravestones. Everyone knew the community members did not all have enough money to mark the spot.

So they told the families they moved all the bodies, and built the school, but the stories about how some were left behind persisted in the oral history of the community. Finally, one of the Black gravediggers told the story. My grandparents taught in that school for decades.

I grew up playing in the ruins of the school. I choose to think I communed with who lay below. The company that owns the land now has built a parking lot over the land that was once a cemetery and then a school and then ruins. They don't want to let anyone dig up the parking lot.

The bones are still there. This story about the children killed in the Move bombing, and their bones has me spiraling out.