The mother spoke a name, and Rachel knew that it was her name—the name she was meant to have before some white man called her Rachel. What the white man gave, he could always take away. But this other name—this was hers. Rachel repeated it. The syllables felt strange in her mouth, but as the thrum of speech vibrated through her, they gave her strength. She was able to stand without stooping. She could feel the pleasant weight of her body, solid and powerful. The mother stepped back and began to dissolve, one drop at a time, soaking the earth underneath her. When she was gone, the soil
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