for the both

somewhere, a mother unclenches her jaw

for the first time in years.

her child is home.

alive, though not whole.

none of us are.

mere miles away

a father digs through dust,

whispering names like droplets,

each syllable a world that once was.

we call this peace.

we call this progress.

we call this

what our ancestors would have wanted.

i call it what it is:

a wound too deep for language.

a grief too loud to name.

so i light a candle.

and i say:

may the light find every lost one.

may the fire stop at the edge of the children.

may no one’s safety require another’s ruin.

i place my hand on my heart and my belly.

i say:

i will not let them make monsters

out of my people again—

not by dying,

and not by killing.

i call on my ancestors who fled

and those who stayed,

those who fought back,

those who hid,

those who chose life anyway.

i call on the mothers

who have no graves to visit.

i call on the fathers

who dig with bare hands.

i call on all who breathe in smoke

and keep saying never again

until it truly means everyone.

let this be the turning.

let this be the truth-telling.

let this be the end

of choosing whose blood counts.

amen, and also—

enough.