“How many ways can you splice a history? Price a
country? Dice a people? Slice a heart? Entice what's been
erased back into story? My-gritude.

Have you ever taken a word in your hand, dared to shape
your palm to the hollow where the fullness falls away?
Have you ever pointed it back to its beginning? Felt it
leap and shudder in your fingers like a dowsing rod? Jerk,
like a severed thumb? Flare with the forbidden name of a
goddess returning? My-gritude.

Have you ever set out to search for a missing half?
the piece that isn't shapely, elegant, simple. The half
that's ugly, heavy, abrasive. Awkward to the hand. Gritty
on the tongue.

Migritude.”