Day 622

After his son the young journalist was killed
the man collapsed into his friend’s arms
and wept.  He wept, remembering the boy
who had loved nothing better
than kicking a ball down the street.
He wept remembering how he’d taught the boy
to read, to write, to love observing things.
He remembered how the boy
had been ready to study
when the genocide began
and then said instead
he was going to document
what he saw, what was happening.
He thought of his son telling stories 
of children who walked
through fire and survived. How he thought
his son was also walking,
daily, through other
varieties of fire. How
he thought to warn his son to step back,
to take care, to stop for a day, a week.
To kick a ball down the street
with a friend.  How he didn’t,
how he could never
find the right words.  How
it was not a surprise 
when he got the call
that his son had been killed
and how he knew
he could never have
stopped him.