Day 412

Just when she thought she could walk no farther
her father said they had to walk on.
The air was heavy, rain was about to fall.  The road
smelled of blood, decaying flesh, excrement.
She had to walk, carrying her small brother,
holding her six year old sister’s hand, their father
carrying all that belonged to them, which was
practically nothing.  Rain started to fall:
first a little, then enough to soak everything.
She started thinking what it would be like
to stop:  to set down her brother, to sit
in the rain by the side of the road, to let go
her sister’s hand, to stop her ears from hearing
their crying, to block her father’s voice
telling her walk, walk.  To give up, to give in.
To let the death that was stalking her
like a hungry animal finally have its way
with her, pin her to the ground, back her
against a collapsed wall, slowly or suddenly
consume her.  To go dark.  To stop.  Just
when she closed her eyes for a minute
to see what that blindness was like, she heard
her father starting to sing.  He was singing a song
that matched the rhythm of his walking, a song
he had sung to her when she was small.  She opened
her eyes;  saw ahead of her,
against the devastation, her father’s
back, still strong.  Still upright.  She hoisted
her brother higher onto her chest, grasped
her sister’s hand more tightly.  Above them
a single bird, dipping and soaring
through gray unbroken sky.