Red at the Bone

by Jacqueline Woodson

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.

Guess that’s where the tears came from, knowing that there’s so much in this great big world that you don’t have a single ounce of control over. Guess the sooner you learn that, the sooner you’ll have one less heartbreak in your life.

Does it sound crazy to say I looked at her and saw the world falling into some kind of order that I didn’t even know it was out of?

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