Originally published March 20, 2011

Because the sun hung so cheerful and bright, he pretended there was no war, and that his trench did not smell like bloating death.

Shaving by a shard of glass, he imagined he still looked a child of seventeen, instead of an old man of twenty.

Wincing as shells roared overhead, he pictured fireworks.  The first time he’d been taken to a show, he’d cried until his mother brought him home.  He had not gone to the fireworks after that.

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