A Canyon of Silences

“Don’t you like it?”

He prods the pasta with his fork.

“It’s great, Ma. Just like I remember. I’m not so hungry is all.”

“You’re so thin,” she says, then trails off.

Her eyes drift across the hook that replaced his beautiful hand, move over the ruin of his face, settle on the eyes.

The eyes are safe.

The eyes are the same.

Her boy, so talented, so moral.

He’d been handsome in his uniform, cheerful in his letters.

Home now, he is full of darkness, his mind a canyon of silences.

She does what she can.

It’s not enough.

 

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