The stories dwell inside me now, a gift I suppose, for a writer.
The young woman, having escaped Russian occupation, who wails for her mother and eleven-year-old sister, left behind.
The mother of three, who confesses that the darkness of war has all but consumed her. “My brother’s home was bombed this morning,” she writes. “I thought there was no hope.” The news of a family willing to receive hers comes just at the right moment.
A note, scribbled in Ukrainian on a standard form that comes across my desk: Help us please. We are trapped and there is no money, no food. Our lives are in danger.
No amount of compassion can ever heal the traumas of war, but we must try, heart to heart, hand in hand, to create a chain of caring.
(Image my own)