This is the story you wrote during your time in the nursing home. Remember, the one about Ethel Mary.
Little indentations formed in the palm of her hand as she gripped her necklace.
Elongating her back as she sat on her father’s shoulders she could see everything.
The glinting ocean,
The looming boats,
The marching soldiers,
But nowhere her brother.
With knees pressed hard against the bare wooden floorboards, ignoring the cold seeping through her flimsy nighty she prayed that he would return to her, hold her in his arms and call her Ellie once again.
Everyday they listened to the radio,
Hoping for some good news.
Every morning they checked the mail,
Fearing for some bad.
Then came the day.
Engulfed in her father’s
arms was a trembling
shell of her mother.
A letter, blotched with
salty tears, lay at her feet.