She was saying goodbye and she didn't even know it.
An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.
She closes the door completely, and I crouch there. I allow myself to fall forward and rest my head on the door frame. My breath bleeds. My heartbeat drowns my ears.
The injury of words. Yes, the brutality of words.
The bombs were coming-and so was I.
That was when the world wasn't so big and I could see everywhere. It was when my father was a hero and not a human.