My hand was on the trigger.

I was confused, trying to think.
I moved close and looked in their eyes.
They looked back, afraid.
I pointed the gun at them,
closed my eyes,
and saw my son.

He was their age.
His crime?  Being Palestinian.
An Israeli soldier shot him.

It was time for my revenge.
My finger shook on the trigger.

They were crying.
One had deep black eyes,
just like my son's.
Another held his bar of candy, crying.
I closed my eyes
and saw tears on my son’s face.

Do I have to kill them?
Why should I stop?
Do I have to kill them?
Can I stop?

They might grow up and kill me.
They might destroy my house.
They might burn my olive trees.

I take a breath, point the gun again,
look deep into their eyes,
and start to pull the trigger.

On my way home, I wondered
if I had done right or wrong.
Reaching the grave of my son,
I said, “I did that for you.
Your absence hurts me to the bone.
I don’t want anyone to feel the same.”