Day 976

The last thing she remembered
was the look in her mother’s eyes
before she set out to get water.
She’d dismissed it, weary
of seeing her mother
in so much fear, weary
of “watch out and “don’t
linger” and “come back
quickly.” Wanting to be just
a fifteen-year-old girl
chatting with friends
in the afternoon warmth.
Laughing. The last thing
she saw after the sniper’s
bullet struck
was her mother’s hand
stretched out to her, mother
who wasn’t there, who
was waiting to take
the bucket of water
when she reached the tent,
which she never reached.
Mother who’d stretch her hand
out toward her when
she’d fall, when she
was first learning to walk
and run. Mother
who’d pick her back up,
set her back
on her way. Who now
would have done anything
to see her stand again.