One particular morning, I was sitting in my grandmother’s kitchen. She brought me out coffee and oatmeal in fine china and didn’t say a word as she walked away.
She didn’t make a big deal about it. I put my fingers around it, feeling the incredibly delicate bone china that I know a large portion of people haven’t had the chance to eat out of, and yet here I was about to eat out of them as if they were dixie cups and plates.
As a young Black Queer woman, I puffed my chest out a little bit in that moment because I had been so down and out with the state of the world, and here I was in this moment treating myself to such a divinely intimate moment of intentional care.
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