This is Kibiwott. He was one of my neighbors in Kenya. I miss him. I miss his brothers, Micah and Manu. I miss his sister, Priscilla. I miss his parents, Salome and Mombosi.
There are so many stories I could tell you about him. His little laugh that made me laugh every time he laughed. His little voice that asked for fish. The time he was sick with malaria and he slept in my arms and then threw up all over me. The time he ate mango after mango after mango; his face and hands a sticky, stringy mess. So many. Too many.
Time marches on. He is 6 or 7 now. But not to me, not inside my head.
I close my eyes and I see you.
You come to me frozen
as if you stepped outside into the snow
and it covered you kabisa.
There is a distance I cannot cross
and you are forever.
I cannot let go of the statue of
you in my mind;
the one that keeps you safe;
the one that keeps you alive.
There are moments,
like thousands of ordinary days,
that shine and last forever-