Do you know where your son is? Your daughter? Does worry for them pour from your mouth like a cataract into the pool of your chest, racked open to the sky, your heart torn from its home there, its old path worn by the flood—gone, it seems, for good? This is where I know they once stood. Here—in this spot—they blew candles. As we try to get a handle on our world without them in it, we pray and still we wait and sit with the empty notes of our song echoing…echoing, then gone.