Lit ake

Ejrak Inej Eo

Kaminene Ik Io

Kawewa

Jabon Kenaan

Rekalek Juon Ao Ajur

Rekalek Juon Ao Ajur - Anrohasa (Takke)

Bwebwenato..

Bao ko iMejatoto

Kwe Jiron In Majol

litakke-KSMART

Al Kin Iakwe (Koju.A)

Dad, I miss you in the spaces where the kettle starts to sing,
where toast pops up like tiny suns and weekdays learn to spring.

I miss you in the zipper-sound a tent makes in the rain,
that zip that writes a silver line through night and back again.

I keep our little campfire in the pocket of my coat,
a lantern made of memory that warms my chilly throat.

Remember how the trees once hid the moon so I could shine?
You laughed and said, “Alright, my star, tonight the sky is mine.”

[giggle] I carry that, like pebbles you taught me how to find,
the round ones that feel older than the weather in my mind.

When you’re away, I rhyme your name with everything I know,
with puddles, spoons, and story-spoons that stir the cocoa’s glow.

With bus-stop glass and window-birds that chase me down the street,
with shoelace knots and hopscotch dots that drum beneath my feet.

I stack our moments carefully, like twigs that want to spark,
so even in the daytime I can light the camping dark.

I hum the map of constellations freckles make on skin,
and every dot says “Dad’ll come,” and every line says “When.”

I practice all our stories till the endings feel just right,
the lantern always learns to glow, the trees forgive the night.

The fireflies still write your name in cursive on the air,
they dot the i with tiny suns and leave a flicker there.

I find you in the ordinary: dishwater and steam,
the laundry dancing pirate-flags, the drowsy hallway gleam.

I find you in the squeaky chair that makes a whale-song noise,
in crumb galaxies orbiting the kingdom of my toys.

I hold on to the holding-on, the way your jacket smells,
like pine-smoke, rain, and something warm that every goodbye tells.

Hold fast, Dad, pockets of light,
we keep our lantern burning bright.

Hold fast, Dad, through every mile,
I keep the spark, you keep the smile.

When you are gone, I lift our tale and tip it toward the blue,
so all the ordinary things pour out and look like you.

The toast, the tent, the zip, the moon, the trees that always knew,
how joy can hide in little rooms and grow because we do.

And if the night forgets its stars, I’ll loan it one of mine,
the small round one you pressed to me and said: “It’s yours to shine.”

So hurry home when home can be, and if it can’t, alright,
I’ll meet you where the kettle sings and turn on all our light.

Hold fast, Dad, pockets of light,
I’m here, I’m small, I’m burning bright.



Rekalek Juon Ao Ajur

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