Maybe the Birds Will Be Free

Dima missed the sound of birds—maybe to some a small thing to miss when sleeping on rubble, but she missed it all the same. She’d had two bright yellow canary birds, Yaz and Taz, whose beautiful song helped calm her on the nights when all that was left to hear were planes, drones, and destruction. Dima had released them just one week prior, for two reasons: one being her family couldn’t afford them, especially when they themselves found their hands reaching for birdseed in desperation for any bit of relief from their painful hunger; and two, out of hope that they would be able to fly far away and find some measure of peace. In the sparse minutes that Dima found sleep, she would dream that she was with them, soaring across the clear blue skies, the crashing waves of the ocean dancing below her, and the rugged trees of the forest ahead of her swaying in the breeze. There was no sadness there. No fear. And then she would wake up. Always, she would wake up.