Day 390

What will you tell this child
when she asks where her sister is?
Every night they slept 
with their arms around one another.
Then the air turned black.  The noise
of the bombing blocked all
other sounds.  She called
for her mother.  Her mother
called out, called her name. She called
for her sister. No answer.  Chaos.
Chaos of voices, screams. Her mother
making her way over the rubble, picking up
the child, running with her
out of the crumbling
shelter.  No other voices. Walls
collapsing.  Flames. Flames, more
darkness.  What will you tell this child
when she asks why you didn’t run back
inside the shelter, look for her sister?
What will she do now
without a sister?