insides when she arrived. In the distance, barely visible dots glided through the dark backdrop like buoyant specks of dirt on the ocean floor. Even as they started their slow descent, the wake of vultures that hovered overhead maintained the pall of the desert village. Suddenly they closed in, tearing downwards with aquiline precision. She tried to fight them off but there were too many of them. Although she knew that meat was a very scarce item, she hated them for attacking. The talons of the vultures snatched at the dead flesh. Hasty claws tore at it, ripping off long strips of skin in the ensuing flurry of feathers and claws that followed. When they were done, the vultures flew off, leaving behind the dead boy’s transmogrified form, more husk than substance. And once again, all was silent. Scarred from her futile attempts to honor her brother’s corpse, she bent over to the side, coughing and vomiting. She stood, dazed, only regaining consciousness when she heard her little sister’s frightened sobs. She nestled Amnogu in her chest, shielding her from the macabre sight. It was then that she saw the child’s ragged doll lying among the dust and filth. It seemed to be smiling at her. A chameleon ran across its face. And then she cried. Finally after so long, she cried, her long thirteen years drawn out across her helpless face. She allowed herself to be a child again. She called out to her mother and father, both long gone, victims to the disease. She cried out to her ninety year old grandmother who had taken care of them until her death three years ago. She cried out to God. She cried the cry of the poor. She cried the innocent cry of the young. Where have all the parents gone? theMeadow 85
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