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by Abigail Ottley
You can open a window and fill your lungs with sweet, wholesome air; be at peace with the world as you stroke your dog, feel his wet nose nuzzling your palm. You can sing a snatch of song that takes you way back when, then smile to see the happy ghosts you find there; say hello to a friend, pop a chocolate in your mouth, pluck a rose-tipped daisy from the lawn. Then, you can sit and count the daisy’s petals, one-by-pretty-one, in the sunshine. You can admire the jewelled sheen on a magpie’s wings and watch as he struts and preens. Or you can just sit back and let love fill you up, enjoying a long minute of perfection. What would they have given for such a minute, those who died yesterday in Gaza? How would they have spent it, given the choice, a minute for every murdered one?
