Day 289

(Refaat)

He was carrying a bag with some cans of beans,
a piece of chocolate he wanted his wife to eat
instead of giving it to the children.  Take it for yourself,
he told her, I know you are saving everything
for them. It was early winter, early darkness.
She did not know it was the last time 
she would see him.  She took the chocolate.
Warmed the beans for the children.  Ate.
I have thought every day about his poem,
the one where he said we must — all
of us — tell his story.  Their story.  Every day
I have been trying to tell it.  Every day
there is more to tell about the bombs, 
the children without arms or legs,
the starving families, the destroyed hospitals.
Every day I think about what he asked of us
and try to accept it as a gift, a
responsibility.  Something I need
to carry: Sacred.  Irrevocable.
On that day he asked his wife to accept
a gift, and she accepted it.  It was only
a few squares of chocolate he’d brought
in his bag, but she took it.  She ate it.
All the rest of her days to remember
that richness. That sweetness.