© Bruce Goodman 25 July 2015
(This is written for the Cherished Blogfest. It is the second of the three days of the “fest” and I have a story a day. I depart for this “fest” from my daily fiction stance to the non-fiction. Click here to find fellow bloggers blogging for the Cherished Blogfest!)
Bruce’s mother had a brother. It was the 16th of December 1944. It was early morning. There was a knock at the door.
This was the visit all dreaded. Bruce’s mother answered. Yes, no, no, yes, no. Her brother was dead; killed in the war. He was buried miles and miles away, in a foreign country; way way across waves and waves of seas. Killed? Yes. Her only brother. In Italy. Or was it France? Or Greece? Or was it North Africa?
A few years went by and Bruce was born. As an adult, he visited his uncle’s grave. He brought three pebbles home from the grave to give to his mother. She placed the pebbles on a simple piece of driftwood next to a photograph. It was like a little shrine.
Bruce’s mother is dead now. At her funeral, Bruce took the pebbles and dropped them in his mother’s grave. Three cherished pebbles from Italy. Or was it France? Or Greece? Or was it North Africa?