“Hush little baby, don’t you cry…”

My fingers curl around my sisters ear, then wipe under her eyes.

“Momma’s gonna sing you a lullaby…”

I cringe as the sound of another bomb hits close. Much closer than I’d like.

The gravel under my knees hurts and I shift to sit with my knees crossed instead. My legs are chalky from the dust but I don’t complain.

I can’t complain.

Looking at my sister I feel hopeless. She’s clutching a teddy that’s missing a head _and_ a leg. It’s dirty and stinks but she clutches it so tight I fear if the teddy was a real creature it would have suffocated to its death by now.

I hold her hand and pray.

It’s silent besides the sounds of people shuffling outside our make-shift tent and the odd sound of a child crying for their mother.

My sisters quiet sobs break my heart in two. I need her to sleep.

Sleeping is our only slice of heaven here. The only time when we can drift in unconscious peace. No war, no violence, hunger or thirst.

Her sobs fade and I know she’s waning. Soon she’ll depart to meet our parents in the dreamland. I squeeze her hand tighter.

Sleeping is the only salvation I can offer her. It’s beautiful, but it’s also cruel. A fake reality, a tease and temptation to a life our bloody fingers can only wish to see. I envy her for being able to sleep. Most nights i’m lucky if I can even get three or four hours.

In those hours i’m mostly plagued by death. The face of my mom, her body distorted under a pile of rock. My father, his hand reaching under the rubble for my brothers. His face lifeless and bloody.

But then, I have nights of peace. Nights of warm light where the sound of laughter over a full kitchen table makes my stomach hurt in the best way. Elbowing my brother, and sticking my tongue out at my dad, my mother swatting my head with a towel.

Yes, there is a beauty in sleeping. A privilege that we are too lucky to have.

I lie down besides my sister and watch her quiet breaths.

I hope she is somewhere beautiful right now.