Playtime

As I cook lentils, I hear the kids play in the neighbouring schoolyard.

It’s that time of day.

The bombing was two months ago, and the school’s abandoned now. But still I hear the sounds of that afternoon.

The police never found who did it.

But the kids know.

There’s the explosion. Fifty-eight times I’ve heard that.

The first time, the laughter became screams. Now it just gets louder, until it’s crashing against my door like a wave.

I don’t dare leave, though nothing’s left in the house but dried lentils and leftover fertiliser.

Not sure which I’ll finish first.