Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother the story continues...

91I brought an old blanket to sit on the ground at Thomas’s grave.I’ve come every day since Wormley Hughes, Burwell’s half-brother,began digging here right after Thomas breathed his last, eleven daysago. The site was now ready for his monument.This 15th of July, 1826, a pleasant Saturday that might havewarranted our picnicking, was to be an anniversary of sorts. It wasthirty-nine years ago that my adolescent heart beat wildly as I steppedfrom that barouche in Paris—and stole glances at the great, handsomeman I quickly grew determined to win.Word has reached us that Mr. Adams died the same day asThomas, on the fiftieth anniversary of the Declaration’s adoption. Twogood men the same great day, rivals in many respects but friends at thelast. Mr. Adams was also in my heart.Lying on the alcove bed, Thomas went with part of me insidehim, for he licked my tears as they fell, copiously, on his lips. Heseemed to thirst for them.He suffered horribly in his last days while trying to stiflecomplaint. Every organ and muscle in my body ached in sympathy,seeing him struggle to make it to the special day, the celebrated Fourthof July. Then he resigned himself to our calming ministrations, finallyto his dying breath. He was such a brave man, such a gentle and givingman.I ran into the woods to yell my grief to what Thomas called“Nature’s God.” Startled creatures ran in every direction. Even hawkstook flight. I’d never felt so alone.After losing my voice, I collapsed at the foot of an oak and criedmyself to sleep. I rose at dusk from the forest floor, smelling of earthand decayed leaves, and returned to my quarters.A wail lifted into the evening on Mulberry Row, then another.Then voices in spirituals. Madison looked in on me. When he startedto leave, I said, “Leave the door open.”“But the mosquitoes—”“I don’t care. Tonight I want to hear.”So many white and colored came to the burial ground to saygoodbye as several men used ropes to lower his casket.The mountain was filled with people—his people.The world will never know another like him.And I? My thoughts kept going round and round that, yes, I washis slave. And, despite past protestations over such a condition orstation, I could say it now: Proud to be Thomas Jefferson’s love slaveand closest companion.And he was my true and faithful mate. And we’ve had childrenof combined races to carry proof of our love forward.My notes from Thomas? Other letters? Stolen from my roombefore he was in the ground, most likely by Martha—and most likelydestroyed. I screamed upon discovering that heartless larceny, thatexcruciating loss. Madison and Eston restrained me from confrontingher.Now, I feared the future without my man. All here were fearful,but for different reasons. What I feared most was not my uncertain fateat Martha’s hands but loneliness, the severing of a companionship thatwas the beat of my heart, the joy of my soul.With Thomas gone I cared little about myself except to help mysons, perhaps learn whether my “runaway” children had establishedfamilies and made me a grandmother.We awaited disposition of all properties, including the slaves butexcepting a favored few. Meanwhile, I resolved to keep the grave tidy.There’ll be an obelisk, as he’d wished. It will mention theDeclaration, the religious freedom statute of Virginia, and his fatheringof the university—the achievements of which he was proudest.I spread my blanket and stretched myself on his grave, facedown. I’ve settled into the habit of talking to my dear departed lover,my husband, my friend, my Thomas.“Thomas,” I whispered, “I know you had doubts about heaven,and so do I. Therefore, you’re still in your coffin—your body, yourbrain and heart, your spirit. And I’m here with you, as near as I can be.Wherever they put me, whatever they do to me, please know your
Sally is with you. Through eternity.”