I sit outside under the nearly new moon, the squeaking of bats exchanged for the sounds of the now sleeping crows. I sit outside in the darkest part of night and I beg of you: You, who have lost your child, your dreams, your love. You, who have your particular forms of loss that keep rolling in like ocean waves. You, who are broken, bent and cannot get yourself back together into any recognizable form. You. Tell me: now, much, much later, what you know of joy.