A slight slip of fiction, 58-style

Veteran Affairs
He keeps it on a shelf, same shelf as the cereal, the oatmeal.
A modest ceramic bowl; blue, the color of an early sky after a day’s rain shower. One handle is chipped.
He doesn’t looked inside. Doesn’t need to; he carries the pain inside.
Within, a dozen aluminum tags, memories of boys who wouldn’t be coming home.

4 comments:

Teri said...

I can see that cup, that chip. I can't feel what he feels, except for my sympathies and ache in my heart.

We all have chipped cups on our shelf, don't we...

Teri and the cats of Furrydance

Noah the Great said...

This is rather heartbreaking.

Crystal Phares said...

This brought tears to my eyes.

Shadow said...

you guys with your private blog make me wonder what you have to hide....

ha ha, anyway, is your 58 your 55 contribution? why not try 69. wait this is getting completely out of hand. my apologies.!