Amri

Amri looks out of the window.
The children are playing out in the sandy street.
The planes have stopped passing overhead, and the rubble from the collapsed buildings has been used as temporary constructions for the children to play their games.
“I’m the king of this castle!” a small boy standing on top of one of the shapeless heaps of broken stone proclaims, smiling from ear to ear while holding his sword made out of scrap metal high above his head.
Amri finds herself smiling for the first time in the year that has passed since her daughter died screaming in the flames of the burning white phosphor.
As she smiles, she forgets her grief for one second.
If for one second only.

I am Amri.