Vietnam 1968

It just seemed all kinds of wrong.

Matterson looked at this picture every night. I watched him through the cloud of mosquitoes. He caressed her hair, mumbled some sweet nothing, kissed the photo, and tucked it back into a pocket in his fatigues. I never asked him about her. I probably should have. I don’t even know her name.

After he stepped into a spike board, I took the picture from his pocket. There is still a smear of his blood on the back. I don’t look there. I just caress her hair, mumble something sweet, kiss her softly, and put her in my pocket.

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