Day 969

Your child was two
when they bombed the hospital
you’d brought her to
when she had a fever
that wouldn’t relent.
The doctors gave her fluids,
whatever medicines
they could find. No
antibiotics available,
not much even for pain;
they did what they could.
She slept. Even ate
a little. Was beginning
to sit up, even
to say a few words
to you when you left
your other children
to come to her bedside.
Despite all, she
was recovering. She
would be playing now,
perhaps, with her siblings.
Asking for oranges, which
she loved. Talking
about the nurse she liked
at the hospital, who,
holding a cool cloth
to your child’s forehead,
was murdered beside her.