As my 2½-year-old daughter colors Halloween pumpkins, my cousin’s son in Gaza draws a self-portrait underneath a sky of metal, his little stick figure body standing below a rain of Israeli missiles. Here in Brooklyn, I’m stuck in an anxious loop, asking myself how I could comfort and distract my girls if we were in the Gaza Strip, like so many mothers who are sheltering with their young children, living amidst horrific bombing and displacement. As a writer, I turn to storytelling to make sense of darkness and confusion. If my family was enduring the onslaught, what stories could I possibly tell to soothe my toddler, Lila, who defiantly colors her pumpkins blue or green because sh
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