What is it like to look up from the shadowed outlines burned into the walls? Where can one go to see through the black rain? How can all of the tears be dried when the shattered ruins of murdered cities lay all around?
Only one people have answered that question.
They rose. Yes, with the help of their occupiers, the perpetrators of their harm. But they rose. Cleared the ruins. Buried the dead that could be buried. Cared for the sickened survivors as best they could. Told their stories. Crafted their symbols: Godzilla, the Origami.
Forged their hope, one broken-yet-beating heart at a time.
memorial bells
origami
in the wind
I’m hosting Haibun Monday over at dVerse. We’re reflecting on hope while commemorating Hiroshima Day 2019, which is tomorrow. The Pub is open! Come join us!
Frank J. Tassone 
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