Day 1,085

A mother is stroking
her child’s hair
for the final time
before he is laid in the earth.
Brown hair. Silken. Hair
that used to cascade
over his eyes, that he
would swipe away
with a finger.
Hair that was dusty
from the dust he played in.
Hair she would brush
morning and evening
to shake out the dust,
watch it fall
like tiny brown-golden stars
on the floor of the tent.
Now she will not
use that brush again.
Now her small son
has become the last star
that has fallen.