Thinking of the Picture of the Syrian Child, Drowned-- Poet unknown
One knows instinctively what it is to carry such a boy, let’s say from a car after a long trip’s drive, the slumbering dangle of the little lower legs weighted by shoes that look almost as large for his feet (fine as a chirping bird’s) as his small child’s head for his small child’s body, the rims leaden about the slim ankles–
Someone strapped them on so carefully, bending down before the boy, someone wanting to keep those shoes from getting lost, someone who also picked the boy up, held him, someone he held back.