I'm pretty Ukrained out. Not that I've stopped caring. No, I follow the news still, to an extent. I just don't - can't - embed myself in it, every offered source, any medium, every hour. One or two stories a day, noting how video keeps repeating, some losses here, a bit of progress there, that's my limit.
There is one image that keeps with me, along with all the questions I likely will never find the answers to that go along with it. How did he get to this point? What became of him? What kind of scars will it leave? If there will be one image that tells the story of the awfulness of war, for me it will be this one. Not the rows upon rows of demolished buildings, broken bridges, stalled convoys of tanks. Not the burning Russian ships in harbor, suddenly unable to unload their cargos of destruction. Not even any of those shots of Zelenski, staying in his country, leading, encouraging all his countrymen to follow his example, and still begging for more help.
The image which haunts me, etched in my brain, is from the very early days, when evacations of women and children were starting. It is of a single child, perhaps 4, perhaps 8, nothing giving a better hint of age besides the roundness in the features of his face and short stature. He's bundled in a puffy coat, a scarf around his neck. Somebody cared enough to protect him from the winter weather. He's walking on whatever road was the way to hope for those leaving. There is a small group several yards ahead of him. Another walks several yards behind.
He walks alone, frozen for all time in my mind, crying.
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