I lag behind; I am post-birth, holding my infant, and Yosef turns back to me, spurring me to move just a bit quicker. He beckons in encouragement, and only I see the legionnaire come up behind him like an angel of death. I instinctively shrink back, still too far away to reach out.

Yosef smiles at me, and then he is gone. Swish, swish, and they’re all gone, my entire world, my essence, my life. One second there, the next second I am alone.

I stand, frozen.

It didn’t happen. It didn’t happen. No no no no.

I am rooted to my spot, death and screams surround me, and I can’t move.

Yosef. Shimon. Chanah. My worlds, my life.

I feel something warm and look down. Amitai has spit up, his face creased in a shriek that can’t be heard over the raucous clash of death around us.

I jolt. There is one more piece of nitzchiyus left for me. For his sake only, I shrink back into the growing shadows of the homes, and slowly, silently, slink toward the forest.

I move at a snail’s pace — it is the only speed I can go — but the soldiers are too busy butchering my family and friends to check the shadows for one weak woman’s quest for safety.

I reach the cover of the forest, my body shaking. Amitai snuffles and I hug him toward me. I find a tree with easy footholds, tie the baby to my body, and hoist my aching bones into the leafy branches above. We sit there, camouflaged by foliage. I shake, but I don’t cry. I imagine Yosef, his hand outstretched, and my eyes remain dry, for how can I mourn myself? He was me and I was him.

But my Shimon. And my sweet Chanah. The pain is one thousand nails pinning me to the tree branches, one hundred knives skewering my heart. My babies, my beautiful babies with their ruddy Jerusalem skin and eyes that reflected the sun. Shimon’s singsong brachot in the morning, Chanah and her sticky kisses, and my heart, my heart can’t take the pain, and the tree is shaking from my anguish. The sky turns black.

I try to feed Amitai, but heat and hunger and tears have left me dry.

“Soon, my baby. Soon Ima will find something to eat and then you’ll have more milk,” I croon softly. I inhale his sweet scent, and for the next few hours, I try not to feel. I sit in that tree as the sun rises and sets and rises and sets, until I lose track of time and space. I feed Amitai and feed him, but soon I have nothing to give. And then, as the next morning sun begins to rise, as the carnage and destruction of my world begin to fall into sharp view, the small snuffles turn silent.

No.

I am alone once more.

I sit in shock, every muscle is locked, and then, as the sun bursts over the hills, I lean into his blankets, and I scream. Louder than I’ve ever shouted before, I scream and scream, a guttural sound that comes from my depths, that comes from a soul that has been severed, stabbed, and broken into a thousand jagged shards.

I hold on to the tree with one hand, grasp his little body with the other, and I scream until my voice gives out.

Then, completely drained, I place him gently among the branches.

Take that scream with you, I tell him silently, straightening his covers.

Take that scream to G-d. Show it to Him. Tell Him your Ima sent it with your pure neshamah.

Goodbye, my sweet child. I’m sorry I failed you.

I lower myself from the branches, and turn my back on my son, my mind on nothing except my burning desire for water.

I step out of the canopy of trees, blinking in the bright light, and the first thing that hits me is the copper scent of blood.

And there they are, the people who made up my world, the neighbors, relatives, friends.

Lying in the streets, hanging from posts, and suddenly I am certain I am the last person alive in the world.

Where do I go from here? My husband’s been cut down, my children slaughtered or faded from hunger, and then me. One simple bas Levi, standing amid the wreckage of her world.

And then the question is answered, for I am surrounded.

Seven soldiers advance, they circle, spears pointed. I think the odds startle even them, for they hesitate.

I use the extra seconds to speak.

“We will return,” I say, my voice rusty. I gesture out at the limbs and bodies surrounding us.

They stare at me.

“We will be back. All of us. And you, you are nothing but a passing shadow.”

They laugh, for indeed I sound mad.

But I believe it.

They charge, and I close my eyes and wait to rejoin my family.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 905)