Ecce VIII: Mors Gentile

Prayer. Child. Wife. Tea.

I sit in my favourite café. There is coffee, tobacco, the newspaper. This is some quiet time spent before a work appointment. A bright, chill November afternoon of easy pace, inside and out. The news tells of two states at war after so long – an artillery attack this time, on a neighbourhood at dawn, a neighbourhood with sleep in its eye. Many people have died. Many wives and many children. The café is warm, alive with chatter and joy. Here Peace: There War. Here as There People Trying to Live.

A survivor tells of his morning. Details: sense after shock. He was praying, his child at play in the same room. The details. He said that his wife had made tea. It was about 5:30am, he said. The stuff of sorrow gathering inside my face, almost an itch, here in the café. It is that word. Tea. Tea together with Wife. My wife had made tea. Prayer. Child. Wife. Tea. The shell landed in the alley. The details. He picked up his phone and ran down the back stairs. He picked up his phone. The stairs were covered in dust already. Dust from the explosion. There was dust on the stairs. In the alley he found his neighbour. His neighbour only a torso now. The rest of him not there. Torn in half somehow. He dragged him towards shelter. He was still alive. I told him to say a prayer. “God is great…”, his neighbour began. Then he died. I told him to say a prayer. “God is great….” And then he died. And I am that man. With my tears in this café. My child playing. The dawn prayer. So quiet. My wife has made tea. A scent of Peace. Tea with my wife. I love my wife. All gone. Weeping to myself amid the Peace. Life going on. Prayer. Child. Wife. Tea. Weeping in a café on a Thursday afternoon. November. His neighbour. A torso. The blue sky here. The chill of November. The warmth of tears. God is Great. “God is great…..” And then he died.