Day 1,066

Someone was making a fruit salad
for the children. Peaches,
grapes, cherries. The children
were playing in a makeshift pool
someone had made from a tub
he’d found buried
under some rubble. One kid
at a time, jumping in
and out. The others
laughing, shouting, splashing
those waiting their turn. It almost felt
like a regular day, a day
surrounded by other days,
a day that would be forgotten
because it was so simple.
Ordinary. Someone’s father
was making a fruit salad,
carefully trimming slices of peach
away from their pits. Then
came the airstrike. Then
was the end
of the excited shouting. Then
the tub overturned:
water and legs, hands, hair
spilling over the ground.
Shreds of ripe summer fruit,
too, everywhere.