It’s true what they say. You can never go home again was a statement I had heard my entire life. I didn’t understand until today.
Mom said we needed to pay our respects, honor the hard work, the sacrifices, and the memories. So, the parade of cars turned left on Anderson and filed past the French Bistro. It held no resemblance to the place I remembered. Vulgar graffiti accentuated fading paint. Weeds choked the carryout window.
There was no honor, no respect for a lifetime’s sacrifices. Memories had long since fled. The only remaining task was to bury the dead.
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer