Ralph stood over his son’s freshly dug grave wondering at the drymess of his eyes. As the minister intoned prayers, he turned his eyes skyward, in an act of defiance. How could a loving God have let his beautiful boy die in such a meaningless war?
A blood-red sunset met his gaze, the sky a mirror of the battlefield where children fought the wars of men too cowardly to fight themselves. Fuck all of them, he thought, the politicians, the warmongers and God. He hated everything and everyone. He wanted to kill and he wanted to die. He ached with rage, shivering in its intensity…
But a tiny hand slipped into his. A tiny reminder of goodness and light. He looked down at his sweet little girl, too young to understand why her brother was lost forever and something cracked inside of him. His shoulders released and the tears came, hot and heavy. He cried… And he prayed.
