Day 393

What will you take with you
if you die? the small child 
asks his mother.  She looks at him.
It’s cold, the dark comes early.
She cannot imagine being without him
and she cannot imagine saying
I will take you, even though
that may be what he’s asking.
I’ll take the sky, she tells him,
and the birds, and the fields
of eggplant and zucchini.  I’ll take
the orange trees and the olive trees.
But then, the child responds, those things
won’t be here, I won’t be able
to see them.  I’ll take your smile
and your voice, his mother says.
I’ll take them all in a way
that will let me have them and let
you, who will still be alive, have them
too.  The child looks at his mother,
trying to understand.  Planes
fly overhead.  The sound of bombing,
that has marked their days and nights
for over a year, grows more intense.