140 children will never feel safe again.
You dodge and feint leaping to the left and to the right. You invent a new lightsaber move called the snake and another called the rabbit and still another called the swirl.
140 children will never invent games again.
I hate to break the spell, but school beckons. Clothes need to be put on, food eaten, hair brushed. You look up at me. “What’s wrong mama?” … “Oh nothing …”
140 children will never get ready for school again.
You laugh your big-hearted laugh – so filled with light and life. “Can you pick me up today, and can we go to ‘Science Squirrel’ after school?”
140 children will never giggle and laugh or be picked up from school again.
“Yes, of course.”
140 sparkling, twinkling lights have gone out in Pakistan.