the light that don't leave us.

a ode to the black girls in foster care who still dream.

I step out into that thick Louisiana air, where even your thoughts sweat. The river smell—mud and iron and history—hits first. My heels crunch gravel. I’m halfway up the porch when I spot her.

She’s stumbling, eyes glassed, mouth moving like she’s arguing with ghosts. Then she trips, and without even thinking, I grab her arm.

“Hey, you good?”

She blinks at…