Do I live? A stream of memory and fabrication confuses me. I never have loved yet time does not wash your face away. Even were you here, our existences would scarcely cross. The mother says, “I suffer. The years are an anguish. No one helps me.” I still live. The father nourishes, infrequent joy, poor offerings. I still live. Love binds all stories, like gravity binds the planets. Stories shine upon your face, narrow flashlight, and my particles hold together.