First thing I noticed, was the darkness of her hair. The contrast between her fair skin with dark hair was as stark as, day and night. Her deep equally dark eyes, were worth drowning in and her beautiful voice was better than any melody, I ever heard.
“I hope you are rested now!”
I heard her speak, I couldn’t figure out the words, but I knew she cared.
She had brought me flowers again, and I was drowning in the sweet summer smell.
“Do you know, how much I love that church?”
She was reading the paper and exclaiming over something, and all I felt was her spell.
She had just left, but I was missing her so much already.
I had only seen her couple of times and yet without her, it felt like Hell.
She came every few days, always with the lilies!
How did she know how much I loved those white things!
She was back again today, with a bigger bunch of flowers.
Oh that black dress! It made her look so beautiful.
She was sad, I could tell. I felt her touch, like from a distance, she was talking to me again.
She was telling an awful story, about kids being sent away.
She told me about the 34 troops who never came back.
I didn’t understand , what was she talking about and then I felt something wet.
Her tears were falling in slow motion, tearing my heart.
I wish, I could just… do something, to make her stop but she went on, crying and talking, stopping only to light a candle.
She told me the horrors she read somewhere, which sounded faintly familiar.
Her voice seemed fainting, and screams grew nearer.
First, I just felt the heat, but I did not want to open my eyes. I heard men shouting every where, thunder, like a really bad storm, only it was getting hotter and hotter. I needed to open my eyes, but, I just couldn’t move. I felt the stabbing pain… I wanted to scream.
Her voice was trailing away….
“Its been 70 years today, you were just 18!”
**Living in Europe has made the World War so real, that it is impossible to think of it as an event from distant past. Every weekend, I end up finding a church with, hidden human remains in the basement or graves left as monuments for the soldiers who died in the war. This past weekend, I crossed a road and was confronted with over 700 graves of young soldiers, who died between 1939 – 1945. What are you suppose to tell a young one who died, more than 70 years ago for no fault of his own? They were all at least, 10 years younger than I am! My youngest sister is that old and they were lost for what, I am still to be told!