Red glass
I handed him his nickel, as I did
every Wednesday. He was so excited, because he didn’t have to do his homework.
It always made me smile to see him this happy, so I was glad to do it. But of
course, that wasn’t my only reason.
He ran out the door, and I smiled
weakly as I waved good bye to him. I then stumbled over, sat down in the chair,
and started crying. What had I come to? I hated not being able to provide for
my son, to the point where I had to send him to the movies every Wednesday just
to get glassware.
I was crying my eyes out, when I
looked up. I saw the figure of my husband, but I knew he wasn’t there; he had
died in the war. He stood over me, as though to comfort me. I was grateful to
feel his presence, even if he wasn’t really there.
“Why? Why did you have to die in
that stupid war?” I choked out between sobs. I realized I was being loud, but I
didn’t care. I was too upset. I lied like this for what seemed like hours, when
I heard the door slam shut.
I got up, and forced myself to
smile. “Hi sweety.” I said as he handed me the glassware. I held it in my
hands, staring at it. It was red, as always. But I was so grateful, yet so
depressed. I hated this, but I had to do it. I needed that red glass.
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