A tiny human. Almost two with brown hair and big blue eyes sits on a tiled kitchen floor. His face determined. His mouth set in a frown of concentration. Perhaps the same expression he will wear throughout his life as he focuses on the things that are important to him.
In his small hand, he holds a colorful toy gun, producing bubbles. He works to collect the translucent orbs into a mountain on the floor. Unconcerned with the pile of soapy water that he is now sitting in. The remnants of the bubbles who did not make it cascade around him.
His task set, nothing else in the world can distract him. He is content, for a moment, distracted and at ease.
Somewhere else, quite distant, in a very different setting, are other children.
Children of many ages. Some who, for a moment, looking for a respite from grief become child-like at heart. They gather in a circle on a broken paved floor with bubble wands in hand. Weaving the magic of delight. Creating a moment of joy within the reality of the chaos of war. Drawing arcs in the air for those same translucent orbs to escape and float up into the blue, blue sky.
It’s a wonder how high they’ll climb.
In a moment of giggles and play with music to offset the staccato notes of artillery shells.
The smiles, at this moment of pleasure produced by tiny hands, from grownups cover the tears that are forever fighting to erupt.
The tiny expressions of concentration. The task, to create the perfect bubble. Perhaps these children will also wear these same looks of concentration if they are also so lucky to grow up. When they, too, are left to focus on the things they find important.
Caia Rose 