That child’s scream is a stone still in my throat.
Sand on the plate.
Sand in her mouth.
A world of difference in a single grain.
I press mute. The world unmutes her.
Do something, whispers my phone, a ghost in my hand.
I close my eyes.
She is still there.
And this is my privilege:
the certain knowledge that
I will forget her name by dinner.
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 8:50 AM UTC
That child’s scream is a stone still in my throat.
Sand on the plate.
Sand in her mouth.
A world of difference in a single grain.
I press mute. The world unmutes her.
Do something, whispers my phone, a ghost in my hand.
I close my eyes.
She is still there.
And this is my privilege:
the certain knowledge that
I will forget her name by dinner.
