Sunrise In The Bedroom Window
Copyright 2011 by Andy Wilkinson
The old woman fingered the scar on her husband’s shoulder as she did most mornings while waiting for him to wake for the day. She thought about this little ritual of hers and tried to remember when it had started. Years ago? Decades maybe? Hard to say, but it gave her comfort, in a strange sort of way, so she continued the practice as she watched for the sunrise, and waited for the old man to come to life.
The scar was a lasting reminder of a bad time when she watched alone for the sun to come up every morning and waited for him to come home from that terrible war. She was a faithful wife and had loved the old man through good and bad, completely devoted to him for more than sixty years, even when he was away . . . especially when he was away.
The sun peaked over their bedroom window sill, and she fiddled with the scar. He never spoke of his injury, or how the C shaped imperfection had gotten there, or of the letter he had received from the president when he came home after that horrible time. His generation of heroes were like that, just lived quietly with the memories of their deeds.