Day 1,068

for Dr. Mimi Syed

Years from now, perhaps
in some other country, the child —
who no longer
will be a child, but a woman
of twenty, twenty-five —
Years from now, walking
along some shop-lined boulevard
in a city with no
bombs, no airstrikes, no
drones overhead — Years
from now, rushing to where
she works, goes to class,
has lunch with a friend —
she may see someone passing
who reminds her of you:
same hair, same glasses, same
swift pace –and remember the hospital
where she was brought
with a bullet lodged in her brain.
Four years old. Mira. Her mother
hearing the doctor — you —
tell her, “I think
she can be saved.” Collapsing
in tears of relief. Mira:
four years old. Emerging
from surgery: able to see,
hear, speak. Months later,
in her tent, showing you
how she has learned again
to walk. Showing you
her just-painted nails.
Months after that, evacuated
to the country she will
grow up in. Will learn
another language, will live there
with her mother. Will have
more care. More rehab. Other
doctors. One
after the next. Your face, in her mind,
fading and fading. Lost
in a haze of memories
she will not want to keep:
until that moment. Until
just then, seeing that stranger
walk past her. Some afternoon
in a future we can only imagine.