My Job

I can tell you a story about a boy who stepped on a cluster bomb or bomblet or mine and lost a leg or two legs or his life and it wouldn’t mean much. Would it? I could tell you about the boy's shoes that were a size too big and filled with water as he walked through mud and puddles that picked the streets he used to walk and whistle on his way to the market to get his mother the tubers she needed to make stew for dinner. Or perhaps his athletic build. See the rubber ball roll across the street before the war started and then see it disappear in smoke as the world gives way to desolation. See him running through those streets with or without the ball. See him exist in both planes of possibility which are past and present. See the future where no one can get to him because they fear the bomblets and he lies there looking at the sky wondering what he did to do this. Look to the past again and he kicks the ball down the street with a dry shoe that is new and clean and fits well. 

It is not my job to tell you to look at the boy past present and future and the bombs and the rolling red ball. My job is to remember a boy who never existed but who looks at me when I close my eyes at night. He’s there. Silent. Waiting.