The Mothers

by Brit Bennett

Grief was not a line, carrying you infinitely further from loss. You never knew when you would be sling-shot backward into its grip.

And if you couldn’t know the person whose body was your first home, then who could you ever know?

This was his gift, a body tied to no one.

The weight of what has been lost is always heavier than what remains.

These were the moments when adulthood was formed, not a birthday but the realization that she was now the one pouring a handful of candy into children’s bags, that she was now the one expected to give, not receive.

magic you wanted was a miracle, magic you didn’t want was a haunting.