We
wait at the docks for the ship to come in, my mother's hand in mine -
red, white and blue in the other. A tour of duty is nine months, just
long enough for the bruises to heal, for her to forget his true
nature, but not long enough for me to forgive.
The
boat docks, the band plays, and expectant children run to their
fathers, spared the indignity of a flag-covered coffin. I wait. I
grip my mother's hand tightly.
“This
time it'll be different, pet,” she says. She lies.
I
see his face and know I should feel love, but I feel nothing. He
extends his arms for a hug, and I dutifully obey.
The
Monster has returned.
*
* *
Based
on a writing prompt from Jenn Daugherty
https://twitter.com/SweetAssUnicorn
Thanks, Jenn!
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