Day 503/Ceasefire Day 33

The child is sleeping.  Her mother
moves quietly around her.  Though the tent
is small, it holds everything
they have:  a few pairs of shoes,
two jackets, some cans of food.
The child, whose brother is playing
outside with a friend, sleeps deeply,
peacefully. The one arm she still has
is wrapped around a stuffed blue dog
that somehow, miraculously,
has survived bombings, displacements,
driving rain.  Her mother
straightens the light blanket, brushes
her daughter’s hair with her hand.
Maybe today she is in less pain.
Maybe today she has made a step
toward accepting the arm that is missing.
Maybe today, when she wakes
from her nap, the air will be filled
with the smell of flowers
beginning to blossom, the late afternoon
will be peaceful, her brother
will hold her one hand that is there,
will walk with her outside, will take her
to look for jasmine, cyclamen, poppies.