I fall asleep with the news on. You’re a reporter in a bullet proof vest. I hear shell fire. I wake up. I’m glad you’re upstairs, not there.
Doorbell. It’s them. I’m sure. Come to deliver the news. Tuesday. Closed-casket. Wear black. When I see the postman I laugh so hard I cry.
Looking at the tiny photo, I feel a slight tug of 69 years. My dad: a World War II soldier. Your mom: an officer’s wife. Are you my sister?
A red shirt for solidarity, a slogan for the fight; these things she wore with pride. She stood on the front line and was the first to fall.
The more he reflected from his hospital bed, the clearer it became why the hammer and sickle was not the proper flag to fly at the VFW hall.
I hold her wrinkled, bloody picture in numb fingers. Shells burst in the sand about. Deep breath. I crawl for safety, leg dragging behind.