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My death
Narrative
On this of all days
Is the Worst
For my 80 year old mother
Awaiting my safe return
From war
Then she sees a man at her dark green door
Holding a note tied by string
Beside him a priest
Wearing a white robe, holding a cross
She new bad news was amist
Letting the men through the dark green door
A sad look on her face
A tear in her left eye
The priest and the messenger take separate seats
In the leather sofa's
My mother, sad as can be.
Slowly takes the note
From the messengers steady, but sorrowful hand
Unties the string keeping the note folded
Reading the note
She already knew
I had died in war.
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