Gray It is a two-tone gray wound. It is two woulds: one high, one low. Two guns. Two bullets. Two people bound by one wound, one would and too many coulds and shoulds. It is a grain of sand, a small glistening that sticks in the throat of the muscle, a piece of what it must become, a shard of what it never was, a speck in the eye of a gray sky, a two-tone gray sky the color of lead. Keepin' the "Po" in NaPoWriMo....
We ran there, my mother and I. We were running with the group, running in the street, running for the line. We were running when the first explosion tore the crowd apart. My brother was in that crowd. My mother ran to where he had been, to where we saw him last. I ran after her, calling his name. We could not find him. We found only blood, and the pieces of other mother’s sons, other sister’s brothers. Last month, we lost my father. Now we have lost my brother. Our world is torn apart. My name is Abida and I live in Baghdad. My name is Badria and I live in Kabul. My name is Brigid and I live in Dublin. My name is Abby and, yes, I live in Boston. The ear of compassion hears the voice of the other no matter how far away the voice is. The ear of compassion hears the voice of the other no matter which side of the line it calls from. The ear of compassion hears the voice of the other no matter how quiet it is. Why do we run from the voice of the other? It is our own voice.
This one’s for Hannah….
Have a tooPHy Phriday!