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He glances up at the clock on his bedroom wall. 3:19 am. It's been three days since that night. Zaire stood up and walked to the window on the opposite side of the room. The moon had never been so dark before that dreadful night. Usually, there was at least a little bit of light shining down. But it seemed that even the sky pittied Zaire's loss. Knowing he wasn't going to get any sleep, he turned on his desk lamp and began to write. And he wrote. As the tears raced down his face, he explained his deep loss in words that only some would understand. For days, he wrote like this: crying and sharpening no. 2 pencils. He only knows poetry. The one skill he mastered and enjoys became the one thing that keeps him going. He describes the pain he feels. The searing loss of love and companionship that vanished into thin air. You see, Zaire's loss wasn't out of foolishness. The night he describes was the death of both a child and a mother. His beautiful bride of 2 years, Lyra was in continu