[ Clara's always been drawn to working with kids in some capacity, so much so that when she split into pieces, every echo managed to work with them too, at least at some point. ]

Can't pass up an opportunity like that. Let's see.

[ She'd taken a contemporary art class in college, after uni, and she thinks back through all the Mary Oliver and Maya Angelou she read. But she settles on neither. ]

Langston Hughes was a brilliant American poet. He wrote mostly about issues regarding race, but all of his words were impactful. I remember one poem that I made a copy of and stuck in the edge of my mirror so I could see it every day, called 'Dreams.'

[ She hasn't recited poetry in a long time, it feels like a muscle being stretched for the first time in a while, and it takes her a few paces to be sure she remembers the entirety of the short poem. ]

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

That's from somewhere around the 1920s. Can't remember the exact year, though.

[ She exhales so that she can see her breath, watching it fade to nothing. ]

Dreams have always felt fragile to me, you can never hold onto them as long as you want. But I like this poem.