Day 1,120

She had been sitting
in her mother’s lap
when the gunfire came
that murdered her. What
safer place? Her
mother’s lap. Refuge
and shelter and home.
She had heard the noises.
She was afraid. She
was eight years old.
Her mother held her,
spoke to her softly,
comforted her, reassured her
this death was coming for others,
but not for her. Who
were the others? Her friends?
Her friends’ families? The child
buried her face
in her mother’s
lap, whispered her questions
into the warm, dark folds
of her mother’s clothes,
close to the womb
she was born from.
That’s how she died:
close to where she was held,
to where she was carried
before she came into this world.
Before she knew to be afraid.