Red at the Bone

by Jacqueline Woodson

Heroin happened to him. Heroin made your daddy king of every party we went to.

Would the tragic comedy of memory ever stop replaying?

But both of them need to know that inside the goneness you gotta carry so many other things. The running. The saving. The surviving.

Buttermilk biscuits and powdaddy, probably. Hot peach cobblers in cast-iron pans.

She felt red at the bone—like there was something inside of her undone and bleeding.

Sex is easy for a fag, girl. It’s the love I’m after. Bring on the love.

Something about memory. It takes you back to where you were and lets you just be there for a time.