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Fiat Lux By Yash Seyedbagheri

Older sister Nancy and I turn on the lights so people think Mother’s home.

Nancy props a mannequin in the window, moves it about, Mother in motion. We are helping with dishes, exchanging stories of bullies and boyfriends. Mother doesn’t talk of odysseys and cities, but love, dries tears rather than shedding them.

She hasn’t been back in three weeks. For a day, a week, you imagine accidents, contrition, Mother rushing through storms. But the question becomes why? Why now?

We try to keep the lights on. They go off.

We turn on the flashlights.

Things are too clear in darkness.

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