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John, Michael, Christopher MAG
It was a crisp, clear June morning.
The sun was just breaking through.
I woke each of my three boys.
With a kiss on their forehead and a gentle touch on their shoulders.
I left them to pack.
John, Michael, and Christopher.
At breakfast, John and Michael were excited.
Christopher though was more quiet than usual.
Handsome they were
In their olive army uniforms.
Each with a twinkle in their eye,
Except for Christopher.
The walk to town passed too quickly.
I was proud of my boys.
They held their heads high.
But the sadness in Christopher's eyes
As the train pulled away
Haunts me in my dreams.
A dark, olive-colored truck appeared.
Out came a tall man,
He handed me a letter, said he was sorry, and drove away.
As I read aloud, my tears rolled, my boy was killed.
Michael and Christopher.
Still sad from my eldest son gone,
Thinking of how Michael and Christopher are faring.
The phone rings,
I go through the empty kitchen to the bedroom,
Knowing, before I answer, Michael is gone too.
Leaving only my sad-eyed Christopher.
Sitting in my bed
How could this be?
I hear a faint engine rolling,
I look out of my window and there is a man.
He is limping up toward the house.
I turn on the lights and go downstairs.
As I open the door, I know, I cry.
Christopher, back at home.
Never going back to war again.
John, Michael, Christopher.