Sometimes she sings, whispers, prays.One day she carries her coffee out toa patio at her temporary residencewhich still retains two palm trees.She can see the moon, not yet set, and feelthe breeze, still normal. In the background,fighter planes roaring, she doesn’t mention them.She says, I’ve been thinking. I just don’t know . . .There are gaps in the message. Sometimes she cries,pulls herself together, apologizes.Her favorite student who posted his little tomatoand mint gardens on Instagram was incinerateden route to coffee with her one month ago.He’d been down to the beachto take some deep breaths.So handsome he could have been a film star.Recently he told her he wanted to write storiesof his people in a way anyone could understand,those who’d never been in war, or been to Gaza.He knew she would smile. This had been her job,encouraging students.She’s afraid to know what’s happened to everyone else.He was just walking over. She was proud he had realizedthis was something he could really do.