Billy was quiet for a moment, then asked, "When is my face going to turn black like yours?" "It's not ever going to turn black, Punkin." "Why not?" "It's just not, that's why. When God makes up his mind what color a flower's going to be, that's what color it is. And it's never going to change. We're God's little flowers, you and me, and he picked me for black and you for pink, which is what most folks call white." Neither spoke for a while, then Billy broke the silence. "Was your mama black like you?" "Yes, she was." "And your daddy?" "Yes." "And your brother?" "Yes." She anticipated and dreaded the next question. "Are you my mama?" Sookey spoke slowly and looked straight ahead. "If cutting your cord with a butcher knife and breathing air into your lungs with my own makes me your mama, then that's what I am." She took a deep breath. "If giving you breast milk from your very first drop to your last, and wiping your forehead with a cold cloth all night when you was sick with the fever makes me your mama, then that's what I am."