Memorial Day
What I recall of that day was a dirty–faced girl, barefoot and slight of stature in a torn dress. Wide-eyed and excited, she rattled on in a dialect I’d not heard. She was holding a baby, naked and jaundiced and quite dead. I tried to take no notice of her and walk on, but it was no use. I turned and offered her a candy bar. She looked down, then back at me, her eyes searching. The lieutenant kept screaming at us to pick up the pace. We were the relief expected at the front and we were late.
Fred Miller is a California writer who has more than twenty short stories in publications. His published works may be found on his blog
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