She has started to wet the bed. She is nine years old. Her eyes have become distant and she hasn’t smiled for three days. Her voice is hoarse from screaming throughout the night. She wakes up shaking. There is no water to wash her sheets and her room has begun to smell like urine: a sharp, sweet stench. The power has been out for three weeks, and the heat is unbearable. The windows in the kitchen have been blown out by the sound of the bombs that fell four days ago. The flies are relentless throughout the day. Your little one, he is four, will not leave your side. His clothes are filthy, but the water must be conserved. The car lays beneath the rumble. No way to make money now or even escape. Everything is five hundred times more expensive: gasoline, food, soap, and candles, but there is so little money that it doesn’t seem to matter.
Sometimes you pray that a bomb will fall on the house and end this. Then at least maybe she will be at peace.