Small Hands, Old Rubble
She sifts through what the world once was,
a box still latched, its hinges hold—
one small mercy the blast forgot,
one thing not broken, not yet cold.
Dust falls like snow that shouldn't be,
in rooms where laughter used to live.
She doesn't cry. She's learned that tears
are one more thing she can't afford to give.
Somewhere a window used to show
a street, a school, a mother's face.
Now light comes through in broken shards
and settles softly in this place.
She holds the box like it might speak,
like it remembers who she was—
before the world forgot her name
and left her only what it once was.