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My death

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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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