There was less than a ten year difference in their ages and the good natured ribbing between the 'old folks' and the 'kid' was always welcome. Cherie and Mary were only about half way through the latest production on Mary's iPod that she had loaded before they left Phoenix when they arrived at the cabin. They arrived to a grim faced aunt and uncle and the news about a bombing in Washington DC. Friday hadn't been any better when they woke to the news that the newly elected president had been assassinated."I think you should stay here for a few days," Uncle Frank told Cherie Friday afternoon. They had been listening to news reports of rioting all across the United States."But I have a test in algebra," Mary protested. "I have to be in school Monday."Cherie had to smile because she knew that Mary was more concerned with a new boy friend than she was about missing a test. "Honey, I don't think school will be open Monday," Cherie said gently. "I think Uncle Frank is right. We need to stay. Each with his own story of his part in the last world war, Each holding their memories of fallen comrades, small and large victories, amusing anecdotes and tales to enthral young children, or bore the elder, young men. Not all of the war had been about blood and guts, mud, hard rations or killing the Germans and the Japanese. Some of it had lighter moments, but not much.Every year he stood apart away from the massed crowds and watched. Nobody ever spoke to him of the scene or of what it represented. He watched alone, and then left when it was done, back to his little flat in Chelsea, back to his loneliness and the memories of his lost love, dead these past forty-nine years, dead and saved from the possibility of execution, dead by his own hand. Each year, the pangs of loss were more acute and all he had left was to wait, wait until they were reunited in death. He would not hurry the event. Not that he was afraid of dying. He had been dying, piece-by-piece, bit-by-bit since he had.
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