Day 1,012

Osama Al-Shafi

First his horse was killed
in a shelling: gentle, faithful horse
who had pulled the cart
the man depended on
to sell his small goods,
to make a small living
for his family. A month
after the horse lay dead,
the man started flying into rages,
breaking windows, punching walls.
Shouting at his wife, his father.
Then one day he told his little son
they were going to take a walk
to buy candy. He hoisted the child,
just two, onto his shoulders, began
walking in one direction; then
suddenly shifted. Started
walking east instead, toward
the yellow line, toward where
soldiers were standing. Waiting.
They walked. The child
sitting on his shoulders.
The soldiers approached.
The father kept walking toward them.
Nearly a thousand days of trauma
had clouded his mind; the loss
of his horse, his livelihood,
pushed him over the edge.
He went on walking, walking.
The child terrified, silent.
We know what happened then
only from the soldiers’ cigarette burns
on the child’s flesh, the child’s
broken sentences, his nightmares,
his vomiting. We know what happened
only from that, and from the father’s
absence — the child brought back
to his mother after a whole day,
but not back as he was; perhaps never
to be back as he was before. And his father:
disappeared into confusion,
terror, dissociation. Still disappeared.