her hands cradle her child's head,
or at least that's what it looks like from the picture.
the same gentle curves my own hands take when I hold my son,
when he's soft and heavy in my arms.
by the size, shape, and perceived weight of the bag she's cradling,
her small child is in there
covered head to toe in a white cloth,
somehow still spotless despite the rubble and devastation around her.
she wails, head upturned to the sky,
devastated.
her hands cradle her child's head the same way i do,
when he's soft and heavy in my arms.
i'm lucky, my son is sleeping in my warm bed, and will walk into my office any minute,
ready to go downstairs and eat a snack.
i haven't lost him because an occupying force wants the land we live on,
the land that feeds my son.
i can only imagine the heartbreak,
but i share her rage.