Day 424

The child lies in his hospital bed,
his sister bends over him.  She
is telling him a story about their family.
She is reminding him of a day
they all went to the beach:  the waves,
the ball they played with, the caves
they made in the sand.  She is talking to him
about their parents, their older brothers.
She does not remind him they’re dead.
She does not say they are under the rubble.
She does not talk about how they were trapped,
or how, of all of them, only these two
remain. She wets a cloth 
in a shallow bowl of water,
holds it to his lips, wipes his forehead.
He tries to stretch his arms toward her 
but has to be satisfied with moving his shoulders
a little, since his arms are gone.  Remember
that day, he says to her, and these
are the only words he has spoken
in days, you buried me
in the sand?