Early one afternoon, as a young child sitting in my front yard, excited to see the army march passed our gate, I would grow up to become a soldier, I told myself. In great numbers singing songs in unison, such impressive pageantry moved me. On this particular day, as the soldiers marched passed our gate, I turned to my Papa and asked, “Do soldiers die?”
My Papa, very slowly, turned his head in my direction, looked down at me, and with the strangest of expressions, DID NOT RESPOND!
My Papa has since died and, to this day, never answered me. It was sometime during that period of confusion, I decided I would become nothing in particular until I could determine if they would die. Simple things, and perhaps not.
On the road to becoming a better writer I have learned the balance between speaking one’s truth, not all truths are to be spoken and the value of politically balancing the relevance of a topic with one’s own political center. Today’s prompt has stuck the cord of silence, the cord of vehemently spiting political fire and the sound of reason for the platform of this performance.
I have never liked that word,
Equally so, it took me decades to understand why anyone would leave their well furnished home, travelling to a cottage, a place more furnished than what was my childhood home. I’ve learned that no one travels on a vacation to be preached to about local living conditions. A timely silence is better than an untimely opinion