By Krista Drechsel
@kristadrechsel

Here is your book with the mouse
and the moon. Here is your bear, 

his ears rubbed thin. Here is your head, 
and here, the curve of my neck.  

Here is the sinking weight of you, 
heavy with sleep.

Here, beside you, is the color crayon
world you pray for, simple and mostly kind—

a blue stripe for sky, a row of people
with wide-open faces, and far above them,

the moon you call your friend, 
a yellow sticker pressed against the page. 

Here is your world, folded and creased
from loving, and where, 

where is mine? Beside me, 
my phone offers its own portrait,

all animal and teeth—
a haze of hatred, a tally of the dead

ticking up and up, a sea 
of faces shut tight like fists.

I am tired, 
and I have forgotten how to pray. 

Instead, I do what you do.
I dump out the crayons and color—

a midnight sky, a lemon-yellow moon,
and people, so many people, 

their hands reaching for one another, 
each of them doing what they can 

to close the yawning gap. 
I fold and crease the page 

because I am trying to love 
the world like you, 

because I am trying to remember 
that this, too, is a prayer. 

Guest essay written by Krista Drechsel. Krista is a wife, mother, teacher, and writer living in Minneapolis, MN. A lover of all things outdoors, she relishes long hikes in the woods, canoeing with her husband, and exploring new places. If she's not outside, you can find her drinking cold coffee, writing poetry, and staying up way too late with a book. She believes in the power of words to help us feel seen, held, and loved. You can find more of her work on Substack.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.