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In the photo, Xander held her. Even now, I was amazed at how much she looked like his side of the family, with her red hair and light eyes. ‘She should be outside riding her bike,’ I sobbed, putting my head on Xander’s shoulder. ‘It’s nobody’s fault she died the same night she was born,’ he put his arms around me, ‘the bridge was out, the ambulance didn’t get here in time when she stopped breathing. You’re a good mother and you did everything right for her.’ ‘Then how come it’s been SEVEN LONG YEARS and we can’t have another one!!’ I screeched. ‘Hush now,’ he whispered, ‘shouldn’t say things like that. Should tell me you want us to try again right now.’ ‘Really?’ I blinked, looking up at him. ‘D’you still wanna have babies with me?’ ‘You know damn well I do,’ he kissed me deeply, took me by the hand, and led me back to the stairs, ‘I said for better or worse, for richer or poorer,’ he sat down on a step, his legs spread wide, and I sat down on the step directly in front of him, ‘and. His breath, like momentary white ghosts, became highlighted in the wan, late autumn lightHe had been there, contemplating, for two hours or so, ignoring the chill and watching the day unfold. How he hated this Sunday each year, hated the march of veterans, but was drawn in some morbid fascination annually. Each year, he observed the file of crippled soldiers, long since passed their usefulness to a society doing it's best to forget for the other three hundred and sixty four days, except in the glorified films of heroic deeds with John Wayne, or another popular actor, leading a squad of crack troopers into an impossible confrontation, with overwhelming odds being beaten at the loss of one or two good men. The anonymity of enemy soldiers forgotten. The smells, noise, disease, fear and sheer terror, somehow, not transferred by the silver screen and all the tricks of modern film making.He had watched the ruins of buildings being rebuilt, almost in an unseemly haste, as if to purge the.
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