The first time it snowed
in Shallam, the children thought
it was a swarm of moths and
(the orphans especially, themselves
fragile and ivorypale) ran outside
with glass jars. Their warm hands
let the jars collect only water. Why,
they asked, do moths turn to rain?

(Everyone remembers what happened
on that lone day of snow.)

The orphans kept their jars of water
for months, waiting for the paper wings
to form of the wet nothing they had
captured. When the jars dried out, they
stopped waiting for those elusive northern
fairies to sprout and fly away. Not moths,
we tried to tell them.

To be an orphan is to live in hope of what
cannot be. One girl kept even her empty
jar, stained with the last teardrops shed
for that day, the last traces of the water
those children hoped would be whisperthin
and fluttering, wings flimsy like their own
desire to fly away.

Penned by my hand on the 24th of Ero, in the year 352 AF.