Day 603

I am thinking now
of the father
who held his baby’s body
after the baby’s head
was severed from his neck.
Held it.  Rocked it.  Wept.
His tears running down the small
bleeding chest. I am thinking
of how many times this father
had held his child
when the child was alive. 
How, when the child
was sleepy, he’d lay his head
on his father’s shoulder.  How
the baby would turn his head
when his father walked 
into the tent.  How important it was
to hold a hand under that head
before the baby grew strong enough
to hold it up himself.  How important
to keep it warm.  Tenderly
to wash it with what water there was.