* * * *
Howling wind woke Edward in the morning while it was still dark.
Cricket jumped from the bed and went to the door. She pawed it and let out a soft whine.
“Okay, I’ll let you out. But make it snappy. It’s freezing out there.” A few minutes later the dog scratched at the door and he let her back inside.
The afternoon brought punishing winds that battered the cabin and molded drifts of white into ghostly figures. Only a fool would dare venture outside unless absolutely necessary. He lowered the curtain he’d pushed aside, stepped away from the window and finished tidying the place.
He primed the hand pump at the kitchen sink, filled a pot and placed it on the woodstove to boil. Spaghetti and canned sauce sounded like a good plan. Tonight he’d eat like a king, not a soldier.
There wasn’t much to the cabin. Except for the bathroom, it was one big room separated by a makeshift curtain of army blankets. The bed and a dresser were on the other side of the curtain. In the kitchen area, close to the woodstove, stood a small wooden table and two chairs that looked as if they’d survived the Civil War. A small countertop surrounded the sink and water pump. Shelves above and below it held stacks of canned goods and other easily prepared food items, MREs taking up the most space.
A stone fireplace built into the wall near the bathroom provided welcome heat on this cold winter day. Cricket’s ears and legs twitched as she lay dreaming on the large braided rug in front of the fire.
He retrieved a book from his duffel and glanced at the recliner. If he sat in it, it would suck him in and lull him to sleep like always. He chose the rocker instead and pulled a wooden crate closer to use as a footrest.
Finally, he could just sit and think. Today, he wasn’t a soldier. No battlefield, no guns, no explosions, no bleeding bodies, no responsibilities. On this much-needed leave, he refused to think of that life. He looked forward to being an ordinary guy with a dog in the woods in the middle of a snowstorm. And what a doozy of a snowstorm it threatened to be.
The gutful of spaghetti hit like a sleeping pill. His eyelids fell like lead shades over his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt fully rested. A body could only be pushed so far, and he’d pushed his to the limit on too many occasions. He stretched out on the bed, and Cricket jumped up next to him.
“Today’s December thirty-first. My birthday.”
Cricket put her head on his chest and listened while he petted her.
“My last birthday cake was a chocolate layer, my favorite. Seventeen candles. That was seven years ago today. I never got to eat any of it.” He closed his eyes. “Why am I alive? All I seem to do is hurt people. Sometimes life hurts so bad I can barely breathe.”
Meet the Author
Irene Onorato was born and raised in Bronx, New York. Her father, a first-generation American whose parents were born in Italy, was an Army veteran who had served with the 178th combat engineers during WWII. He told numerous stories of battles, hardships, tragedies and triumphs. The glimpses he gave into the hearts of many American warriors would later become the inspiration for much of Irene’s writings.
In 1972, a few months after graduating high school, Irene met James Onorato, a soldier who had just returned from Vietnam. After dating two weeks, they married, raised three children, and are still happily married today.
Irene and James, both radiation protection technicians, retired from the nuclear power industry in 2014 and now reside in Louisiana. Readers can visit Irene’s website at ireneonorato.com, and find her on Facebook.
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