She has beads,
and they are like mine.
They are the colorful beads that make noise as the wheels spin on my bike,
and in my head I play that liberating sound as I watch her pedal faster, stopping only to acknowledge the three looming houses of her masters,
prisons of her memory,
cages for a songbird who could not fly.
And when I look into her eyes, I see me.
I know now what I must do.