And I think of the Bible on the dresser, holding its quiet pages between Psalm 27 and the truth.

There are people who believe justice always looks loud.

A judge’s gavel.

A public confession.

A headline.

But sometimes justice is an old woman in fake pearls, sitting up in a hospice bed with red lipstick on her mouth, summoning her children not to comfort her, not to save her, but to make certain they arrive in time to hear exactly who they became.

Then she leaves the light on for herself.

And for anyone else still waiting to be remembered.