Red at the Bone

by Jacqueline Woodson

A dress ghosted in another generation’s dreams. A history of fire and ash and loss. Legacy.

We so dark and lovely, got them feeling all black and blue.

Look how beautifully black we are. And as we dance, I am not Melody who is sixteen, I am not my parents’ once illegitimate daughter—I am a narrative, someone’s almost forgotten story. Remembered.

Hold on to yourself, Melody. Don’t get lost. He wanted to say again what he’d said to her so many times before. You’re loved, baby, you’re loved.

Love

Because maybe this was what love felt like—a constant ache, an endless need.

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

The surviving.