Cwdw ((top)) May 2026

My pen hovered. I thought of my grandmother’s hands, folded in her lap at the nursing home last Sunday. I thought of the way light breaks through a glass of water on a windowsill. I thought of the fact that I have never told my father that his laugh sounds like an old screen door—rusty, familiar, and the safest sound I know.

Around me, two hundred students obeyed. The scrape of graphite ceased. The shuffle of blue books became a graveyard whisper. My pen hovered

I wrote one word: “Everything.”