The Lantern Year

This year was like ice cracking under your feet—

It was thin in the places that I thought were solid.

The sky was bruised, and the mornings were gray as ash.

I kept breathing as if it mattered.

even though the days didn’t always agree.

The road behind is filled with—

fragments of conversations,

dreams that were folded too tightly,

names I carried in silence and let slip from my life

and never again in my voice.

But ahead of us—

a light.

For a moment, I thought it was a star

that the wind had misplaced,

or a trick of the mist or memory.

I kept going, nevertheless.

Still, if you compare it with the rest of the world,

drowning in stillness.

The light was tiny.

Not the blazing fire of rescue,

not the floodlamp of clarity.

Just a lantern—

lowered

as if someone was waiting.

It didn’t speak.

However, I pictured it saying:

Not all of you is lost.

I changed my pace.

Guilt became quieter in its surroundings.

I almost could hear the grass

remembering the time of spring.

The lantern was hanging on a wrought iron hook

which was planted in the ground—

like someone had been here before,

and left it burning

for whoever came after.

For me.

And even if the wind was pulling at my coat,

and the dark was still closing in on me

like a second skin,

I stood before that lantern

and let the light illuminate my face.

Just long enough

to remember.