“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
You make me happy…” His voice dropped out as the cracking of two shells deafened the air around us, and a buzzing like a thousand bees pressed onto us from both sides.
I had only been three years old, but I was not oblivious to the fact that we would suffer a short, painful death. It was inevitable.
“You make me happy, when skies are grey,” His voice cracked, but remained in perfect pitch through the screams around us.
My father had been determined to make me believe otherwise, that there was some good still left on this god forsaken rock of a world, that there was light somewhere in the daunting shadows.
He had done everything he could, and now what did he have to show for it?
He was holding me in his arms then, singing softly. I was a ghost of a child, with barely enough strength to even open my heavy eyelids and look up into my father’s weathered, hunger-panged face.
“You’ll never know dear, how much I love you,” He had sung, while rocking me back and forth on an automatic impulse.
Sometimes I still rock myself to sleep, and imagine his arms are still enwrapped around me.
The cracking became louder, the lulling voice of my father drowned in the terror of the people, and the angry destruction.
He had nothing to show for the forty-five years that he treaded this earth in search of and ray of hope, except for me, his only daughter, the spitting image of his deceased wife,
his only ray of sunshine.
“So please don’t take my sunshine…”
The darkness enveloped us.