Their picture was on the front page of the New York Times A loose pile of bodies on pavement. The eight year old daughter looked like she was taking a nap Perhaps dreaming of the little dog the article said still barked from a backpack A blond-haired son curled next to the mother, her eyes closed, face smeared with blood. Only the father's heart still beat after the mortar hit as they ran to cross a mangled bridge. I saw the picture from a safe distance from the fighting Couldn't hear the artillery Or rockets. But there was still an impact Wondering what words I could tell my daughter 28, not eight. What I could say to justify faith in humanity When a family dies on a Ukraine street.