What have I always told you, Bessie? What have I always said? You’re my angel. I am you. I’m the bones in your body and the blood that fills you up and the meat around your legs. I’m the softness of your cheeks and the way they freckle in the summer, and I’m the streaks of rust in your hair, and I’m the nose under your nose and the eyes that narrow with fire and roll backward in delight at all the same things. I’m your style. I’m your laugh. I’m the rage in your heart that I’m not here. You’re the body I left behind.
