Sweetest Decline

Autumn evenings hit different. You know the season because of how the air cools your sun-burnt skin, and you crave melting into the breeze. Insect music dances across the same wind as your smile. The scent of decay tantalizes with its promise of the most peaceful hibernation. Surrounded by abundance, knowing there's more than you can ever hope to enjoy.

Smile. You have friends to share it with.

I fall asleep, a big spoon in a drawer with just enough silverware for a single meal. Remember to wash it after every use and one spoon is enough to last a lifetime.

Squabble

Up from clamor of Thanksgiving dinner, two voices drowned out the rest. Uncle Frank (Mom's brother) and Uncle Norm (Dad's brother), were at first pointedly not talking towards each other as they contradicted everything the other said. Then it was raised voices, direct, insistent, until they were shouting over everyone, ignoring their wives' pleas.

Then the fighting really began, first with silverware, then a carving knife versus a brass candlestick, then gunfire and light artillery. By this time, the two halves of the family had divided.

There would be no more Thanksgiving dinners until after the war was long over.

Fate

Cold and hungry, I shivered on the platform.

Everything had been taken. The silverware from Grandmother Petra, tossed in a bag, was a knife to the heart. All our valuable paintings, ripped from the walls and tossed into a pile, was too much for my husband Jenko. He protested and got a bullet in the head. I held my chin high without weeping.

I’m alone, except for the hundreds of people waiting to board the train and wondering where we are going.

I lowered my head and pressed my hand against “The Star of David,” sewed onto my fraying coat.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher