05/10/2026
I stood there, as a 9 years old kid, staring at her face, waiting for something to happen. For her fingers to move. For her eyes to open. Anything. I think part of me is still waiting. Sometimes even now, after all these years, I still search for her without meaning to. In warm lights through the apartment windows at night. In kind women who speak softly. In prayers that arrive before words do. Everything beautiful I try to build — every act of compassion, every ambition, every hope — is, in some way, a conversation with her spirit. Still hoping that somehow, she will walk through the door one ordinary afternoon and say,
“My son, I was here all along.
