Clarence A. Jackson was 32 when his life ended in Buffalo, New York. He was a Black man, and the few details available here are painfully spare—just a name, an age, a place, and the fact of a death that left a space where a person used to be.
In that sparseness, the mind tries to fill in what it can’t bear to leave unfinished. A city street that keeps moving even after something irreversible happens. A familiar neighborhood that wakes up to the same routines, while somewhere a familyâ
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