Maybe they’ll read my letter and send someone to find me. Maybe the ashes will come back with the note: Return to sender. I have no idea.
The home I was born in leans now. I know not how to repair it. The wood is old, the paint is gone. The weeds have overcome the roads I used to run down and the sidewalks where I used to play.
I breathe in the cool, morning air; I fill my lungs with the rising dawn. Truly, the light is sweet. Yet I recall the days of darkness. They will be many.
Tale Told 