Two sisters with black bangs like their mom celebrating the bulb that chose to light the room they shared with mom and dad. I saw one's socks, her shoes were with holes. I saw one's well-worn hands. Still they jumped and still they clutched their gifts so tight. You might cry for me, but I cry for you no more. With their heads on my shoulders, one read a verse that she knew. The other colored paper. Their father laughed. In this desert, within walls of cinder block and foam, I saw blessings received, yet hearts kept pure. I cry for you no more.