Today marks the 7th anniversary since they took my parents away, yet I cannot mourn.

The government will not allow it, but every emotion—every feeling I have stuffed down since childhood is slowly rising, and I am running out of room to store it.

My mind is a stained canvas full of rips and tears, though it is not art. I am a mess that no artist can fix.

There is one photo I own of my parents, and I keep it carefully framed on my nightstand. Each evening, I stare at it—at them—and just *think*.

I hope God is real because I need him, and them, to hear me.

Verbally adressing my concerns is not an option. Aunt Laurie has made that clarified that several times since I moved in with her.

Every time I glance at the photo, my brain can’t help but search for the memory I keep associated with them.

And the person who took them.

He was tall, lean, and had dark-brown hair. It was a wavy mess on his head, but the back was kept neat.

There was a mask on his face, so I was unable to make out his features, but he had ice-blue eyes with dark lashes that made them stand out.

For a moment, as he was doing his job, I could have sworn there was a glint of *something* in his eyes. What is was, I have no clue.

Me and my aunt live in a small town. Most times, you will pass the same person on the street multiple times a day; walking to school, coming home, clocking in to work, leaving work, etc.

But I have not seen him since that day.

I wonder, where he is now? Were his parents stolen from him, too? Did he have to go?

Why do they not want us to feel?

Humans are designed to soak in emotions. People are born to grow and love. The Earth is a gift we are supposed to cherish.

Why don’t we do any of that?

We are plants decaying in the sun.

It has not rained since forever, but a storm is bound to stir.