Day 927

She asked her mother to braid her hair
and tie the braid with a ribbon.
A ribbon was hard to find,
but it was her birthday. Her mother
walked through the tent encampment,
asking everyone for a ribbon; and
at last a woman took a ribbon
from some books she’d tied
with it – an old green ribbon. Worn thin.
But a ribbon! and gave it
to the girl’s mother. The girl,
who was five that day, stood
quietly while her mother
brushed, parted, braided
her hair. A long braid,
halfway down her back.
Dark, shiny hair. Just washed.
The mother took the ribbon
from her pocket, showed
it, for the first time,
to the girl. The girl
gasped with surprise and happiness,
held the ribbon, stroked it
as though it were something alive.
Hours later, when the girl
lay dead on the ground
of the tent encampment
after the airstrike, her mother
bent over her body, kissed
her small face, untied
the ribbon from her child’s
long braid. Put it back
in her pocket forever.