Prose 1..."WAR"

The buildings lay there, like a pile of stones erupted, shattered as if they were as fragile as glass. It hurt to remember, it hurt to recapture that image I had seen. The fire- a hazy blaze, an explosion and then nothing more, only silence. The dead bodies forgotten under the pebbles and rubbish, they say it is too many to save, too many bodies to keep in memory. But what would their family think? Would it be too much to remember, too much to store? I see a little girl, with tears scraping at her cheeks; she sat alone, beside a dead figure littered with debris and wondered if she could shake them hard enough to ‘wake up’. How could I go over there and tell her that they were dead? How could I hurt her like that? I walked to where she was sitting and hugged her close, close enough that I could almost smell the salty tears that ran down her face. I couldn’t help but cry, to see that youthful face swollen with so much hurt and pain. I sat and the tears invaded my face, eyes burnt so badly as if the bomb had exploded in them. I was as orphaned as that little girl was and lost in confusion. Why would someone do this to a little girl? I didn’t even care so much about myself; I was old enough to know, or at least to try to understand the devastation of war. I tried to recapture my old life, the carefree whip of a breeze I lived, but nothing has been the same. I miss everything but most of all I miss being able to live. I cradle the girl gently in my arms and try to hush her devastated cries. In truth, I am trying to overcome my own overwhelm and shock, I am trying to hush my cries as well.
There is nothing left but misery, they say you are not alone, but I have never felt so alone in my life. Carrying the little child in my arms, now gently sleeping, she is nothing but a young child in need of happiness and care. I walked along, jumping over piles of rocks and chucks of stone from fallen buildings. Slowly I make my way to where the market used to stand, in hopes of finding someone that could help us-me and this helpless, hurt child. I am lost inside, no place to go dead parents and bomb alarms every couple of minutes, not to mention an orphaned child in my arms. I cry for what could have been hope in such a lonely world. I reach the market place, but I wish I hadn’t; like all the other buildings, it is littered with dirt, stands flipped over, everything crashing together and the trace of burnt wood tickles at my nose. A fire erupted here, broke the magic and stole the beauty, what a selfish war. I wonder if, even for a minute anybody had thought how hurt we really were, how lonely, tired and fearful our life was. Of course, no one ever cared. No one thought about two helpless, orphaned children. They never cared; it didn’t matter anymore than it ever had.
Our only hope is in memories of the lives we lived. But even that, it was gone, nothing is the same anymore. I remember the lazy days, the calm Saturdays, where my mom sent me to get some vegetables at the market. I remember how she told me to pick out the ripest tomatoes, greenest bunches of dills, and of course, from the basket of dates, the freshest, best dates there is. The smell of vegetables and endless fruits still saturates the air and I can almost smell the ripe, freshly plucked dates in the ash baskets. The sound of people echoes back in my head and I can hear the shouts of the owners, “Freshest tomatoes, best dates around”, “Buy from me!” The fluent Arabic words tumble out and the yells, competent and sure race to the costumers. The kindness of people flies out and tumbles in the warm breeze. I long for it to be back. I long for this endless war only to be a harsh nightmare, and my world back to where it was.
The child slowly awakes, wriggles in my arms and then calms down, acclaimed by the darkness, the shadows that darken the blood to a deep brown. I have no place to go; I am lost in eternity, in this world of evil war.