All the Light I Could Give Her

(All the Light We Cannot See)

The perspective of Daniel LeBlanc- a father in falling light

She couldn’t see the streets I knew,
The rooftops blue, the cobblestones true.
So I carved the city in my hands-
Each step, each square, each turning strand.

She learned to walk the world by feel,
By wood and thread, by mind and will.
And while the bombs began to fall,
We mapped the silence through it all.

I built her locks. I shaped her doors.
A hundred puzzles, hidden floors.
Each tiny piece I made with care-
A way to speak, a way to spare.

The war came slow, then fast, then near.
I taught her courage, not to fear.
But oh, the weight I would not show-
A father’s ache she’d never know.

I told her stories made of stars.
I tucked her in behind the bars
Of myths and stones and secret names-
While evil marched and swallowed flames.

She could not see the uniforms.
She felt the air before the storm.
And still she asked me, soft and bright,
“Will everything be all right tonight?”

I kissed her head and said it would.
A father lies, when fathers should.
I gave her stories, maps, and light-
A thousand ways to last the night.

She was my compass, blind and true,
The bravest thing I ever knew.
And though the dark was drawing near,
I filled her silence Not with fear-
But with the sound of turning keys,
Of whispered trees and trembling seas.

I was not strong, or fierce, or grand.
But I gave her all I had,
My hands.