Somewhere in northern Libya, a grandmother of 78 held her just 5 year old son by the hand.
They had just finished a breakfast of sorts that left both of them a little more hungry than when they sat down to eat it.
Her hands were calloused from working with wheat and thread and grandchildren.
His hands were soft and still innocent.
He still asked about more food without being angry.
He still asked as if the only reason he didn’t have more was because grandma didn’t know he was a growing boy.
She sang to him and the music seemed to fill both their bellies.