• The morning is bright and the air is sweet. The world seems to be a friendly, happy place. She steps onto the porch of her small home that holds all that she holds dear. She waves to the mailman, who tips his hat, before retrieving what he delivered from her mailbox. Mama didn’t cry when that letter came.

    The noontime sun was shrouded by white clouds that dotted the blue skies. Men in tan uniforms and brown jackets milled about, talking with their families or relishing the last few moments with their wives or girlfriends. She stood there, too, amongst them, in her yellow Sunday dress, with a brave smile on her face. She held out her arms and wrapped them tight. She kissed on both cheeks and said a pray. Mama didn’t cry when she had to let go.

    The fireflies lit up the evening as she sat on that same porch, in her favorite rocking chair. She smiled when the mailman trotted up the stairs, handing her the evening post with a thick, tanned envelope amongst it. She set aside her favorite book that she used to read aloud at night, and carefully opened that thick letter first. She didn’t let her smile fall from her face or a single sound of despair to escape her lips when she read it. Mama didn’t cry when she heard the news.

    Now I lay, staring up at the gray sky, the smells of gun smoke and bullets surrounding me. I hear the last feeble breaths of my friends and the last few, whispered words of my enemies. I wonder what she’ll think when she gets that third letter. I wonder what she’ll do, if she’ll cry this time. Mama, don’t cry.