Read the excerpt from "Pilgrimage.”At the museum, we marvel at their clothes— preserved under glass—so much smallerthan our own, as if those who wore them were only children. We sleep in their beds,the old mansions hunkered on the bluffs, draped in flowers—funereal—a blurof petals against the river’s gray. The brochure in my room calls thisliving history. The brass plate on the door reads Prissy’s Room. A window framesThe river’s crawl toward the Gulf. In my dream, The ghost of history lies down beside me,rolls over, pins me beneath a heavy arm.Pilgrimage, "Elegy for the Native Guards", "South" from Native Guard by Natasha Trethewey. Copyright (c) 2006 by Natasha Trethewey. Used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.