The candle
will burn down.
The room
will go dark again.
People will go home.
October 17th
will become
October 18th.
That is the cruel thing
about remembrance.
The ritual ends.
The missing
does not.
I will wash the cup.
Turn off the lights.
Check on your siblings.
Climb into bed
in a house
that kept growing
around the space
you left behind.
And I will still
be your mother.
You will still
be my daughter.
No flame
has ever been responsible
for keeping you alive
inside me.
It only gives
the rest of the world
something visible
to look at.
I never needed
the light
to find you.
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