My Hands

The water to my face is a spray of chaos, the relief is immediate. I look up to a watery reflection, greeting me through drained eyes and new lines. The air to my lungs is a gust of sadness, breath condensing on the mirror. Tired, hunched over I breathe again water running down empty ducts. I sigh. My hands to the water is a soaking movement, as I scrub furiously another child dies.