I visited her regularly, at the beach, in an underpass that connects the parking lot to the boardwalk. Her image - smiling, dimples dug deep, edges laid - was everywhere. Breonna Taylor became so recognizable this year that she felt like a friend, a relative. Recently, while biking through Brooklyn, I glimpsed a freshly painted mural of a face that looked so familiar that I felt I knew it. People shared her name and image in grief and solidarity, but why didn’t it feel like enough?
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