“Here,” she said. “If you going out wit’ John Henry Stallings’ boy, I want you to look decent.Take whichever one you want.” I studied the brassieres, and could see no difference in color, shape, or size.They were all white, cotton, and too small for me. I chose the one from the middle. “Thank you,” I said, and was moved nearly to tears. I pressed the brassiere to my nose and sniffed the faint scent of lilac. Mama watched me. She stood up, held my head between her palms, and kissed my hair.“Tangy, baby,” she said tenderly, “it’s just a ol’ brassiere.Ain’t nothing but a ol’ brassiere.Don’t cry
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