The cries of the children sound like a dirge, although they are just laughing on the playground. Their mothers wear black. Any kindness today will bring them to tears; they are so close already, again. And I stand with them, fitting seamlessly into this ancient band of women, the Rachels weeping in Ramah. The sun is hiding behind that bank building, wondering if she should stay there. It’s hard to know her place in this new world, or if there is one. But by afternoon, the sun, tired of fear, will blind the world again. Our daughters lift their chins; they see perfectly, hands shading eyes. They point, showing us the way.
Sarah Broussard Weaver is an MFA candidate at the Rainier Writing Workshop. Her work has appeared in Full Grown People, The Nervous Breakdown, The Bitter Southerner, and Hippocampus, among others. She lives in the hills of Portland, Oregon.