My mother’s body died today. With the lack of hospital care available to Black people at the time and parents lying to children to keep them working the land a little longer, her body was 90 or 89 or 91 years old, depending upon which document one chose to believe. I think we’re gonna go with 90. It’s a nice round number.

But the mother I knew died years ago. I mourned her then, when she died—the woman who I spent hours upon hours alone with.