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Guest
Here it is...I only have a very little bit. No flames, please...just constructive criticism.
It was a beautiful war. The sky was lit up with all manners of colours, some the exact shade of grandma’s old daybed, and others that seemed not to have a name. All on account of ignorance; the sort of ignorance rooted so deep that it was impossible to locate the heart of it. That was what Grandma had explained to me. I didn’t understand, then, and I don’t think I do now, either. But whether I understood or not, what Grandma said always seemed to make sense to me.
She was a quiet woman, and solitary, with a mess of wiry silver hair that coiled down, reaching her earlobes. The lines that creased her face were deep, like the etchings on the pavement by the old corner store, next to the florists. Her eyes seemed to have sunk back into her skull, the lids wilting over her lashes and making her seem lost in thought, preoccupied, and sometimes even cross.
I had been living with her, out in the country, for almost all my life. I never knew my father, and my mother, sick of the countryside and longing for the city, had moved away. The day she left was the last time I saw her. At the time, I didn’t understand why she had left, or if her explanation was even true, but Grandma knew; she always did.
It was a beautiful war. The sky was lit up with all manners of colours, some the exact shade of grandma’s old daybed, and others that seemed not to have a name. All on account of ignorance; the sort of ignorance rooted so deep that it was impossible to locate the heart of it. That was what Grandma had explained to me. I didn’t understand, then, and I don’t think I do now, either. But whether I understood or not, what Grandma said always seemed to make sense to me.
She was a quiet woman, and solitary, with a mess of wiry silver hair that coiled down, reaching her earlobes. The lines that creased her face were deep, like the etchings on the pavement by the old corner store, next to the florists. Her eyes seemed to have sunk back into her skull, the lids wilting over her lashes and making her seem lost in thought, preoccupied, and sometimes even cross.
I had been living with her, out in the country, for almost all my life. I never knew my father, and my mother, sick of the countryside and longing for the city, had moved away. The day she left was the last time I saw her. At the time, I didn’t understand why she had left, or if her explanation was even true, but Grandma knew; she always did.