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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