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APRES LA GUERRE (After the War) "Apres la guerre...." I heard them say it often! We had so little food-- Mama walked for miles to find half rotten carrots left to spoil on the wet sidewalks outside the bistro. She mashed them in fatty chicken broth with one potato. Hot and salty; it was good! And then Tatie carried in the hot bricks, wrapping them in old towels. And there we sat, around the kitchen table, the old, soiled tablecloth with withered roses on it draped down around our knees. The bricks under our feet sent swirls of heat around our toes and up our legs. Our fingers hugged the bowls of soup; Tatie slurped with great gusto and sniffed. Beads of steam misted her cracked and wrinkled face. The rain came and then the snow. Cold slipped and slid in through cracks and broken windows. Hearts hungered for days of sunshine, large chunks of cheese and sausage on crusty, warm bread with butter from the farms. Apres la guerre, we hoped, we sent our prayers towards heaven. We lit candles in the old church. Joseph never came home. |
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