Each room,
the lights turned off.

It’s habit—
a faint closeness,
my father’s lesson:
turn out the lights when leaving,
don’t let them burn for nothing.

I never told him
God left them on all night for me.
My father crushed hope a lot.
He couldn’t allow any flame to spark.

Stars and the moon—
each night I’d check my window,
and every time,
they were there for me.

If the sky filled with clouds,
I’d wait until one star appeared
as they drifted apart.

Then I could sleep.
I knew God was there,
still looking back at me.

It’s all for us—
to be curious, to explore,
to find the light where it’s not yet on,
to lift a lantern with courage.

We notice when lights go out
because so much depends on them.

Each of us can only speak
as only we can say it—
and that’s why it matters that we do.

We might be the light left on
for someone out there,
and never even know.

© 2025 Raven | Jasmine on the Grave. All rights reserved.