My Lantern

It is my lantern.

I was born carrying its light.

I didn’t ask for it, it was just always there.

A small thing, older than my memory,

passed down through hands and spoken word,

it shook and never let go.

The world doesn’t always want to see it.

Sometimes it just wants the propmise of warmth,

not the burning story that comes with the fire.

Sometimes it wants to borrow the glow

and then pretend it came from somewhere else.

But it stays lit,

I keep it lit.

Because it’s mine.

Because it’s us.

Because every time they tried to blow it out,

in ghettos, in camps, in classrooms,

on the street or online,

it flared back up, stubborn as my breath.

I’m not here to convince anyone

to love the light.

I’m just here to keep it burning.

For my parents,

for theirs and the ones who didn’t make it,

for the kids still learning what this means.

Let them call it whatever they want.

Let them roll their eyes or look away.

Let them raise their fists.

The lantern doesn’t care who believes in it.

It just burns.

And so do I.