February 11th

Last of the birds finding their way home, the crickets chirping as the twilight turned to dusk. My Martha sat on the easy chair, the book she was reading lying open in her lap, the sunlight kissing her feet while her spectacles rested on her nose.  Like every other February 11th, she waited for her son to come home to be with her on her birthday, today also.

 

How could I tell my Martha that her Johnny would never return, that he had died defending the border…that her birthday was the day he chose to face death like a martyr.

 

Linking this to Friday Fictioneers

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Writing to me is therapy, it frightens and comforts at the same time. Liberates like nothing else. A book in my own name is a dream, but a bigger dream would be to write something that haunts the reader even after the last page is turned and the book is shut. I enjoy reading and music, spending time with family whilst battling my social awkwardness.

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9 thoughts on “February 11th

  1. you’ve just pulled up an oft recurring incident is the lives of some families… it is always sad, death is, especially when it is a close one!

    have you read, Kate Chopin.. there is one brilliant story about a husband in the army, I forget the name..
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