Where did he find his resolve?

Locked doors in an empty hallway. Underneath some bright blanket protected by tangled bodies and endless Instagram reels. Not knowing he held his uncle’s hand for the final time that day. Knowing the orchids would not grow back no matter how much he watered and whispered praises in their ears.

Split Rock and reparations. Sirens and flashing lights. Hands beneath floodwater. One of the fifteen soundtracks playing in her head at any given time: SZA, KenTheMan, Victoria Monét, Hayley Williams, an overwhelming round of applause — her benevolent chorus. Her last line of defense.

Their ancestor’s hands holding the rifle close to their chest. Rainwater and forever chemicals. Black children that smell like popsicles and the sweet haze of summer. Dark plums. Losing every spelling bee. Holding hands with a girl for the first time under fluorescent lights. Realizing they may never hear their mother’s voice again. A world someday destroyed, burst open like rings of Saturn, and rebuilt with our hands: our faces gleaming in stained mirrors.