There is no justice.
Not here. Not on this earth. Not for me. Not for my parents. Not for Safiya. I think justice might be a word adults use to make themselves feel better. They do that with a lot of words. The ones they want to pretend are real.
But some of the words are good. And pure. The ones my mom sang to me before I fell asleep. The ones that sounded so proud in my dad’s voice. The ones they whispered over my grave. Their prayers. Some words we need. Some words you have to believe in. That’s how ideas become real. The important ones. The ones that stay. The ones that are forever.
I wish Safiya could know how important her words were. How she saved me. How she brought me home. How my parents who are broken forever at least had me back in some way. At least they got to bury me. To mourn me. I hope my parents can be happy again. I hope one day their smiles come back.
All those years ago, when I was little, Safiya gave me a gift. She gave me a little hope that I could hold in my hand. And she fought for me. That’s not just an idea with a fancy name; that’s something real. That day, in her store, meeting her; her talking to me was like the sun shining into a dark room.
Lately, I keep going back to the lake. Sitting there on the big rocks. Thinking of my parents and how we used to play on the shore when I was little. I can hear our laughter like it’s almost real. I find myself there, again and again, the cold sun shining off the water like a million stars dancing on the waves. Then, one time, I saw it, felt it. I heard the quiet prayers. The end was right there. A rest, at last, after all the wandering.
I knew maybe I could step off the rocks and walk onto the water toward the horizon, where all the blues flow into each other. Be carried up into the clouds, past the sunrise, past the sunset, into the night sky.
High.
Higher.
A memory. A whisper. A wish.
A prayer.
A single star. Shining.