It echoes, laced with laughter, light as a feather, carried on the wind. Frivolous guffaws won’t spackle over the truth: I think we think we miss the old you. Is it hidden in a box, under layers of dust — a dull veneer, particles of your molted former selves? Or eaten up by flames — a burnt offering on your altar to nothingness? I know, now, I’m not alone, your former radiance reflected back, shines through your translucence — my oar hits the bottom, I see sand, shallow, shallow, shallow. I’m not the only one.