Day 387

Her father will always remember
that she was coming toward him
when she was killed.  He
had been gone, in hiding, for
several days; but now
he was back, he walked
toward where his family was staying,
waved when he saw his boy
playing outside with a few
other boys.  The boy
called to the girl
and the girl came running
from where she had been.
Running on her small
legs, in her yellow
dress, her red Crocs.
She was four.  She saw
her father and ran toward him
the way any four year old would
who hadn’t seen her father
for days.  He squatted,
spread his arms to receive her,
but she was stopped on the way
by a sniper’s bullet.  Her brother
watched.  Her father — in shock — didn’t
stand up, as though if he kept
squatting there, something
would change, some ghost
of his daughter would finally
reach him, leap joyfully into his arms.