Overcoming What You Cannot Control

         In a village devoid of natural affection, her congenital, loving guard over her parents was unexpected and filled me with curiosity. I approached her slowly. Sh looked up, her swollen, green eyes a sorrowful shadow of life. She did not breathe for several moments, but when her fragile little body could no longer bear the absence of air, her scrawny chest expanded slowly like the coming of spring. The paths that many tears had forged were dry, but still clearly visible on her ashen cheeks. Her dark hair was matted with tears and dirt, and dried mud decorated her forehead and jaws. Her rags barely covered her body; dried blood caked her feet, legs, arms, and hands. Her distended stomach betrayed her insufficient nutrition, and her slumped shoulders proclaimed her dejection.
         The eight-year-old had care, sorrow, and knowledge etched deeply into her face, and tears filled my eyes at the thought of this child knowing such heartache and seeing such violence. She sat next to her parents' corpses, guarding them from thieves and gravediggers. It had been five days since the village had been invaded and pillaged. Most of the villagers had already moved on, but this little girl's life had been devastated. My tears started rolling down my cheeks and her tears ran down her cheeks as if they were a mirror of my tears. I held my arms open to her; she walked into them willingly, and when I closed them around her, she clung to me, sobs shaking her body.