The text

Argentine's daughter Rachelle died a year ago. 

This year, on the anniversary of that date,

Argentine sent me a text. 

It came late at night.

As I lay in my own bedroom

with the blankets tossed across my bed.

And my daughter asleep beside me.

The sound woke me,

and I froze there for a minute in darkness

wondering what bad news might await.

Mustering the strength to pick up my phone, 

finally I did.

And there was Argentine's text...

"Sister" (she calls me)

We have finished a year without Rachelle. Pray for us"  

And in my own bedroom

my eyes dance away from those words.

Into the darkness.

My own daughter's face warm beside me

suddenly glowing in the pale yellow light of my phone.

And as I lay there 

I imagine Argentine writing this text.

Sitting in that small shack

in a refugee camp, the dirt rubbing at her feet. 

Her arm raised at an odd angle,

tilting her phone just so.

I can see how that pale yellow light 

would spill out in the darkness... there, too.

Illuminating the face of Argentine's new baby girl,

only a few weeks old, nestled in her arms.

The new baby is called "Asante Mungu"

Her name means Thank God.

I sit in that darkness.

"Sister"
I type my response.
"we remember."

 Baby Asante Mungu

 Baby Rachelle