Day 987

for Abbas Abu Jabal

We will not say his life
was wasted, though
he was killed at fifteen
for playing football
in the street near a car
that was hit in an airstrike.
What is wasted is all the life
he might have had: all
the days, all the friendships,
all the work, all the kicking
and running and studying
and loving. What is wasted
is all he might have given.
All the words he might
have spoken to his parents,
his brothers, his cousins.
All the words he hadn’t
even learned yet, that
he might have written sometime
to tell others his thoughts,
the things he had lived through.
Now that task remains to us.
His presence here — his
strong young body, his
swiftness, his athletic
legs — was vibrant, even joyous.
Was not wasted on those
who loved him. Who watched him
even moments before he was murdered,
launching a ball far against
the summer sky. Farther
than he himself
would ever go again.