“Can you see anything?”
The streets are scorched. The buildings we once inhabited are gray shells. The ashes fall lightly on me. I pretend it’s snow.
“There’s nothing to see.”
They knew they were losing, and they couldn’t tolerate us returning to our homes. First they stole our resources, then our people, now our futures.
Our son lifts a case from the rubble: Grandmama’s seed stash, overlooked in its humble box. Inside, the colorful packets aren’t even singed.
“Isn’t that something.”