When I think of leaving, I remember my daughter the night we lost the elections

I’m tired of this shithouse of a country:
its coddling with thieves and tyrants, its short memory, its naïveté, its misplaced

I got one hand on Google mousing over “immigrant jobs in X country” and
another grasping my daughter’s words, like a beaded rosary that night as I wept
on the floor curved like a fetus.
“We will fight, right, Mama?”

Sometimes it’s her holding the towel, ready to throw it in the ring. My mind
guides my hand away from the keyboard and towards pen and paper. Rage is
fuel for justice. We stay to fight.

We stay for love. For a glimpse of moonlight peeking through dark cabinets
where we hide
our monsters. So maybe someday when all of us see the same glint and force
ourselves out
into the hard-won streets of victory, I can tell her, “See? It was worth it. We did


Gretchen Filart
Gretchen Filart
Based in the Philipppines, Gretchen Filart is a freelance editor and writer. Her essay, “Where the Gods Play,” won second place in the Navigator’s Around the World in 80 Pages Global Travel Writing Contest.


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