I’m grateful, and i’m angry

I'm home from my first shift after the ceasefire. I am grateful; yet mortified, and angry.

Grateful to every leaf on every tree, every color that still exists, every beautiful sound that dares to rise again. To every street, every bird, every drop of water, every shadow offering relief in the heat. To every wise old man, every sunset over the sea, every chair that held a tired human.

To every tablet of painkiller, every mother, every father, every broken car that still carried me to work.

To every can of food, every breath of oxygen, every friend, every kind soul.

I'm grateful; to see every child still breathing, every small sign of life that refuses to die.

But I am mortified; to see mountains of rubble, every piece of wood sold for fire, every bakery closed, every broken heart. Every torn shirt on an innocent child, every limbless child, every endless line for food and water, every heavy cart, every exhausted body.

Every bullet hole in a wall, every missed medication, every unanswered question, every suffering. Every drop of blood, every untreated wound, every silent cry.

And I am angry; angry that we are still waiting for the unknown. Waiting for our families' bodies to be pulled from under the rubble. Waiting for our stolen freedom. Waiting to be acknowledged as equal humans. Waiting for life itself to return.