Yesterday, late afternoon, in a north Mississippi local government office.

Me: Are y’all open tomorrow?

Black woman behind counter: [Quizzical pause.] … Yes.

Me: Juneteenth?

Her: What?

Me: Juneteenth.

Her: [Another pause. Locks eyes with me, suppresses rueful laugh.] Aw, naw. Yeah, we’re open. They don’t celebrate that here.

Though I have no roots here, Mississippi always moves me, maybe shakes me, deeply. Last evening, I stood on the banks of the Tombigbee River and nearly dropped to my knees as the sun set on its swirling chocolate-brown waters. I don’t have roots here, but I probably have people here. Unknown and unknowable descendants of men, women, and children sold out of North Carolina and Virginia to the cotton plantations of the Deep South.

I’m in Mississippi on the trail of slave traders — men esteemed in the annals of Wilson County history. By chance, today is Juneteenth. The courthouse is open, and I am here to find us.