Day 1,029

He was eighteen months old.
Conceived, born,
during the genocide.
Four older brothers killed. He
the one surviving child.
Eighteen months. What
had he learned in this world?
He could walk. Run. Hug
his mother. Roll
a ball through the dust,
stand up, race
to catch it
before it stopped. Bring
it back. A few words,
every day more. Plane
was one of them. Drone
was one of them. Where
and No and Gone. There
would have been more.
So many more. Bury him
now with his green shorts,
his little blue jacket.
His shoes, that were
getting tight.
Bury him with his
memories of his brothers,
even the ones
who died before
he was born.
Their names. Their
photographs. Bury him
with all the thoughts
he never had
words for. With
his hands full of sand.
His scraped knees. Fragments
of a song he knew
how to sing. His
mother’s heart.