It’s morning here. Here, it has rained for three days straight.
We don’t stop moving, we stay dry.
But this place is mourning the lives lost.
Here, the weather wonders whether they ever mattered. Water that splatters from puddles and small pools in the streets be monuments of our shared memory that force us to feel just a little something, even when we’ve chosen numbness as a coping mechanism.
Condensation be like repression as we hold deep breaths simply waiting to exhale these inhales that burn like chlorine traveling up through our nostrils. Meant to protect us, and still it hurts us.
Kinda like the police.
Precipitation. We hold our breaths a little longer, but this place, this place around us has released a storm of sorrow that it refuses to hold onto any longer.
I wish to be like it, but still I wince at each raindrop on my brown skin knowing that it won’t be long before my Black body is drenched in the type of despair that makes me question my purpose. I ask myself, is this shit even worth it? It’s hard to tell in a world that’s shown me time and time again that my life ain’t never been worth shit.
I can no longer see past the sea of Black bodies to be buried.
Talia Monet Sharpp is a senior political science student at Hampton University who believes in the power of literacy and literature to create and transform worlds.
Illustration by Paul Hostetler