The littlest soccer player; retreats from the pitch dominated by bigger kids and heads alone towards the empty playground. This is a very sad photo for me, maybe because he's about the same age as my son.
Late morning, much of the bureau is still in bed having stayed up late keeping with the U.S. news cycle. KaaaWhomp! The windows of the villa shake within their frames, one of my indicators that the explosion was either very large or sufficiently close enough to be of interest. Within moments the radio comes alive with the heavily accented voice of the guard supervisor trying to tell us what he can see or what the guards on their posts have observed. Back and forth, Arabic-English-Arabic, reports and speculation come across the airwave.
Once on the roof I squint my eyes trying to adjust to the intense light, scanning the cityscape for smoke. Guards continue to speculate in adrenaline-fuled Arabic as one of the others attempts to translate. The recruiting station for the Iraqi National Guard was just hit with a car bomb, less than a half of a mile away. Undoubtedly people are dead and injured, screaming in the streets for help, shocked that this has happened to them. Children are maimed, torn from their parents, lives have been taken or altered forever.
Returning to the kitchen to grab another cup of coffee, my attention turns to what's on TV in the living room. Strange place this is.