They say it’s coming to an end.
I have trouble with that word.
For an “end” should mean it’s done —
that everything is back to the way it was.
But none of that is true.

It looks like any other neighborhood.
An ordinary walk on an ordinary street.
But as I move further,
the pleasant memories shift.
Something darker settles in.
Something imminent.

Something bright orange caught my eye on the pavement where the woman had been. It was a whistle—a small one she must’ve used to alert people that ICE was in the area. But they weren’t there any longer. The street was silent, with only the faint echo of a dog barking from a block over.

We are marching in the streets.
Side by side we stride.
Thousands of us with our feet on the ground.
We stand together in any weather, in any circumstance, choosing one another.

I value the other person in any conversation, even though we disagree, even though we don’t see eye to eye on so many things. I value listening, learning, and giving others the space they need to process things just as I do. I value freedom of expression and the freedom to be whoever I want in this life. I value all these things.

As I got closer, a glimmer caught my eye, shimmering in the moon’s beam, and I realized it wasn’t just snow or ice I was stepping on but shards of glass—hundreds of them scattered across the street right by the driver’s side door.

The month of January 2026 came to an end—
the frigid overcast days icy and plain. Snowflakes stuck to the glass, collected on the pavement. The wind numbed my face, numbed my soul.

They see the ICE agents patrolling their school. Their little eyes notice the empty desks and lockers of their classmates who have been taken.

These are pieces of you
in this keepsake box.

Pieces of your humanity
that I forgot.

The stench rose up to my nostrils.

This time,
I didn’t cover my nose.

i can’t pretend to be compassionate
i can’t pretend to be empathetic
if i don’t let go of the part of my identity
that makes me blind to human suffering

It’s depression that’s made me realize that I’m living on purpose, not with purpose. There’s a difference.  

She stands underneath the glittery, shimmery chandelier, as it pulses its blinding white lights back and forth across the dark shadows of the space.

To say today was a cold winter day in Minneapolis was an understatement. It was bone chilling cold.

It’s the type of cold that has thick tendril like fingers that wrap around your arms, your legs and braze your face as if not wanting to let go.

Happy screams and squeals of laughter came from lots of kids with backpacks as they raced to each vehicle. Where was Sam?

A brisk west wind forced itself across my face, braising it with its icy fingers. I tugged at my scarf, adjusting it so it would cover more of my face. These last few days had been brutal.

I opened my car door into the bitter cold, and there was no radio or thoughts of my own to distract me from what I saw next.

I realize I’m not outside. I didn’t grab my coat, but instead I’m standing frozen still by the window, just watching.

She sat by the window as she rode the bus home from school. This was the only time when Sam felt safe – in this long moving vehicle with her peers and an adult driving, looking out for her safety.