From the ruins rose she,
Stones matted in her hair and rubble caught in her soul.
Her haven had crumbled, her footing lost,
Weakly, wobbly and unsure
Trying to make her way through a mass,
Of anonymous figures.
Then she felt it.
A feeling of safety, a feeling of trust
A feeling of a hand grasping hers.
It belonged not to a healer,
Bear he no scarlet cross.
It was the hand of a neighbor,
A neighbor as lost and distraught as she,
A neighbor who had felt tears trot down his own face.
But a neighbor nonetheless,
Who answered the silent call,
To a near stranger’s aid.
And as I sit here,
Stroking Colette’s, flowing locks,
Petrified, shunned, forsaken,
I wish you could be a neighbor like that,
I wish we all could have a neighbor like that,
But more than anything else,
I wish I could be a neighbor like that.