The morning came like every other day. Sunshine and little food. A brief walk, and busy noon within the refugee camp.

I pulled my youngest child off a cyclist path and stepped down to buckle her sandals.

" Can I have a candy now?" She opened her palm, wearing a disarming smile. I could have said no, but Rosie would pester me like a spiteful rooster. I had one like that.

Taking a look around, I spotted an ice cream man some yards away. Rosie's favorite was on display.

" Here's the deal. Your sister will get it for you instead," I waved a dollar. We reached an agreement, and Jess quickly made a run for it.

Rosie and I dwindled on the blocks. We made a peace sign for the camera. I took one of Jess returning with two popsicles.

Rosie was beside herself in joy. She clapped and readied her lips for a bite like a puppy waiting for treats. It was hilarious. 

My eyes wandered ahead to where Jess was, looking up at the sky. A little crowd of children were closeby as well.

I blinked once, and hell was unleashed upon us.

It was a refugee camp. No one expected it.

The impact of the blast knocked me off my feet. I got up with a deafening ring. It continued like service bell.

My heart leaped to the last scene on my mind. Smoke was everywhere, but the screams of children who escaped with a burn was unbearable.

People scampered to safety. I stood there, trembling, eyes widened in horror.

Rosie wasn't by my side. Jess wasn't with the escaped children. The smoke died down, and shreds of my heart lay over the ground.

I woke up permanently deaf. It didn't matter. There was no anchor left.

Buried in the picture of my two baby girls, One of the nurses came in, leading a girl inside.

I couldn't hear her, but I saw her lips move. She called me Mama. It was Rosie. What about Jess?

Rosie's face was a glaring reflection of guilt. She stood some feet distance, and in her eyes were a plea for forgiveness. Sincerely searching my eyes for any hint of warmth.

I could feel the burden on her young shoulders. The weight pressed down on my chest, but I had no warmth.

With a dollar, I sent my daughter to her death. I couldn't forgive myself for Jess' exit.

Her image haunted my dreams. It stretched the corridors of my mind in complete darkness. I should have gone instead. She should have lived. 

Rosie and I didn't recover. We simply moved on, finding a little strength in our shared lives. 

This is the cold face of war. The loss, and heartaches. Every trace it leaves are buried in blood. Survivals only bear the scars.