A Candle For Every Woman

In silence with heads bowed, we do not remember them. Instead, we imagine.

That’s because remembering requires prior knowledge, something only a few of those assembled to mourn on this day have. Dressed in black, we turn our faces to the sky. Beside me one woman grips her bag so tightly it makes the veins of her hand pulse. To my left stands a girl wearing her school uniform who is silently crying. As I arrived, I glimpsed a group of women who’d seen this all before, too many times to count. Their mouths formed tight, fixed frowns; creased at the edges. Their eyes were weary but determined. Together we mark the death of a woman we didn’t know and whose brutal murder means that we never will.

You’ve hit the glass ceiling. And our paywall.

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