Today, you message that my room feels light now that there isn't any furniture left blocking space, eating light, breathing air meant for humans and exhaling stale soggy air, like a rickety air-conditioner. It is me that you're talking about, right?
I look for you in secret places. In bag pouches, in empty pockets. In folder named you in the C drive, in the cake boxes discarded after eating, in the WhatsApp group that you have left, in the shadows of the lamp you bought for me.
I look for you knowing that looking for is the best consolation when you can’t look at.
She was her lamp... Her single light of hope..... But some savaged souls snatched her little Mary..... When Injustice burned the innocent soul... In search of justice lost motherhood hunted those pitiless wolves.... Burning the last wolf... She Hummed . . . "Mary Had a Little Lamp"