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Boy stands in front of his bombed home
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At home There the coffins are. Father, mother, two sisters.The boy, not more than about three feet high, is just standing there, at the grey wall - abandoned...his eyes fixed on the something which was his home. The concrete, which is lubricated over the bricks of the fence, seems foggy. This background gives an imagination as if the boy is wrapped into damp, cool cloth. His head is covered by a cap, a colour between green, blue and brown, washed out, indefinable, in certain way, but at the same time - statement. The threads knitted fine by mummy are defying the dirt, the rain. They are giving to the whole small boy a breath of "my son, I love you, you should not freeze. Take good care of you, my angel."His small face is oval, a pale ellipse. Only on his nose clearly summer rungs are to be recognized, they seem like dirt, as if someone had thrown mud at him.His brown eyes, one almost disappears under the edge of the cap, are looking blunt. They do say nothing. No mourning can be recognized, not a breath of despair appears. Only corneas, reflecting the event. Its narrow nose, a little bent. From the right nostril a dried, match-thick thread of blood. It runs up to the portion between nose point and upperlips, nearly one would be bent to believe, a Palate column.The mouth with narrow lips, pulled lightly downward. Critically. Weighing.On the thick pullover, which he carries over a shirt, a kind eagle, among them the name Gucci is sewn on. The Jeans, torn up, full of loam, the trousers shop half opened.He twitches, tears the clenched fists high. But mutely, no sound.With an enormous eddy of dust the fire-place of the totally bombed house crashes down. As an avalanche the dust cloud wipes over the boy too, who does not move.When the dust lowers itself slowly, he in his rubber boots stands in the midst of the ruin, - bends, roots, is kicking stones aside with his foot, digging among smoking pieces of cracked furniture.Then he cries out, nearly falls down, hurries to a sheet of metal rack bent by the heat.Full of joy, grinning inspired, presenting it with both hands high over his head like a trophy, full of pride because of his unbelievable piece of treasure - a charred toy horse. ©TDelissen 082006
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