She had that relatable mix of bravado and weariness you see in people who’ve been fighting the same quiet battle for years, the kind no one else notices until it’s already won or lost. #bravewrite

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She spoke softly, as though each word were chosen to satisfy some private code of elegance, and I followed her voice the way a moth follows a porch light in the summer even though I knew that eventually I would be burned. #2WordPrompt

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The nurses walked home beneath a stormy sky, the air thick with smoke and the scent of rain not yet fallen. The cobblestones gleamed faintly, slick from mist, and their footsteps echoed between the hollowed buildings. London seemed to breathe around them - weary, defiant, wounded, but alive. #vss365

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My aunts called it Decoration Day long after its name had been changed to Memorial Day. That made more sense to six year old me since I knew nothing then of the Civil War or any war or death for that matter Geraniums on the grave did indeed seem to be a decoration after all. #bravewrite

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It was in the small crisis of that winter morning that she understood her own heart, and hence began the slow work of forgiving the world for its injuries and the even slower work of forgiving herself. #2WordPrompt

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