𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; joseph liebgott

PART TWO

I've been getting so many comments lately and they make me so happy <3

Word count; 2,163

Dianne

— December 25th, 1945. Marietta, Ohio.

Having disappeared upstairs for a moment, I called for Papa. He was sat by the table in the kitchen, cigar in the ashtray, when I left to fix my hair, but had now moved elsewhere. A vase had been put in his place, filled with orange tulips - not my own; they wouldn't grow until spring.

"They didn't have yellow." He grumbled from behind me, voice still hoarse from slumber.

I turned around, just as he placed his guitar case against the wall.

"They're perfect." I smiled, pecking his cheek as I walked past him, "Thank you."

I picked his coat off of a hanger, holding it open so he could slide into it. He did the same for me, and like that we stepped outside, the air white as it embraced the snow on the ground. We had been invited to Marion's for lunch, given that our oven had broken down a couple nights before, and they had no family to spend the holidays with either. Luckily, it was only a five minute walk away.

I hooked my arm around his, not only for my own comfort but for his stability. He still used a stick for assistance, and that rarely helped in the snow.

"I missed you last year." He cleared his throat.

Fortunately, the memories couldn't find me in the daytime. Ever since I returned from the war, my memory was scarcely there at all.

"I missed you too." I squeezed his arm slightly. "I'm glad I'm here now."

"Me too."

He knew nothing of what the war had done to me, of the people I met and grew close to. I'd never seen him cry, but that would do it, surely.

We turned a corner, passing by a small field with a climbing frame in the centre, surrounded by a fence and woodchips, all covered by a white blanket. Except, a small figure of red and blue moved beneath the frame, taking chunks of snow as if to build a wall. No adults around.

"What's that kid doing out all by himself?" Papa questioned.

I continued to watch, the boy having noticed us and ducked beneath the snow. I looked back at Papa, whose gaze said it all. We stopped beside a lamp post, and I wrapped my arms around my torso, wandering across the road towards the park.

The gate squeaked as I opened it, the way it slammed shut seemingly muffled by the winter atmosphere. The boy was still in the same position, hoping he was sheltered by his makeshift fort.

"What are you doing out here, hon?"

His head, buried low to avoid eye contact, twitched upwards, finding recognition in my voice. It was only then, as his eyes found mine, hidden by his red cattlesman hat, that I realised it was Stanley; a boy from my fourth grade English class. A rough little rogue, with a talent for creative writing - despite how he didn't know how to write at the beginning of the year. Everyone called him Cowboy.

"Stanley?" I queried.

He sat upright, as if his cover had been blown, and fiddled with his fingers.

"Where's your mom, hon?"

He shook his head. He didn't have a dad, so I didn't even question that.

"Why are you out here all alone?"

Stanley looked at my feet, too shy to meet my gaze, "She's not home."