Christmas Day. The sun was out, but the winter snow kept the cold. I trudged through it to make my way back home.
Christmas Day: 1925. Why did I return to your place? I guess that I just had to see your face.
In uniform, my medals pinned to my chest, I stood in the grass. While I stood there gaping, the man who answered asked,
“Who are you? The girl you knew isn’t living anymore. She’s moving on.” And then he shut the door.
Christmas Day. And you denied him who once was your only thought. An empty well, a human shell, to rot.
Christmas Day: 1925. I resigned myself to new paths. I’m moving on. I’m moving on; it will last.
I dailed home on the telephone. “Mom and Dad, I’ll journey there. I’m a new man. Stronger than I can ever share.”
So, Christmas Day, you went away, but I told myself what to do. I’ll love, but I won’t kill myself for …
Christmas Day, Christmas Day.