[b]Brit Bennett
Grief was not a line, carrying you infinitely further from loss. You never knew when you would be sling-shot backward into its grip.[/b]
If not hammered to a pulp.
The weight of what has been lost is always heavier than what remains.
No, really, what if it always was that way?
Reckless white boys became politicians and bankers, reckless black boys became dead.
Statistically as it were.
But we were girls once, which is to say, we have all loved an ain’t-shit man. No Christian way of putting it. There are two types of men in the world: men who are and men who ain’t about shit.
In much the same way there are two types of women. But, sure, point taken.
A daughter grows older and draws nearer to her mother, until she gradually overlaps her like a sewing pattern. But a son becomes some irreparably separate thing.
And [of course] with absolutely, positively no exceptions.
She’d already learned that pretty exposes you and pretty hides you and like most girls, she hadn’t yet learned how to navigate the difference.
Ugly too.