Still Here. Still Breathing.

Instructions

(Part 2) If there's anything Marie knew for certain, it's that the world is a cruel place. 10 years after the war, after her father's death, it continued to haunt her, seemed to follow her everywhere she went. She still had the pochon her father forgot to take with him, the lavenders inside long since dried. But she was strong. For her father, she was strong. And now, she's in America. I near the end of my shift at 'The Stardust Lounge & Diner' when I see them. I managed to get a job at this extravagant, over-the-top place when I moved here a little less than a year ago, although they probably just took pity on the girl who's all alone without a family. I noticed them first from the unmistakable look of military uniform, crisp and immaculate. Papa could never get it that way; he was always tearing holes in them. Though there was only 1 hole that mattered. There were 3 of them, military officials with high rankings, I'm sure. They came to dine with their wives, plump young ladies who looked every bit as over-done as the chandelier above Table Six. They'd put on bright red lipstick and wore those cat-eye glasses I kept seeing everywhere. Their hair looked oddly similar to Marilyn Monroe's. I couldn't help but wonder what my mom would've been like. A lavish maximalist like this? Or the kind of simple I've come to become? Screams and shouts from all around me pull me from my thoughts, though they still felt like they were a mile away. The muffled sounds only made the thoughts worse. I thought of the battlefields, of the millions who lost their lives. It was only when I looked down that I realized what had happened. I'd dropped one of the dishes on the classic tiled floor of the diner. I'd made mistakes before, silly little accidents I blamed on clumsiness. But now? I was on the floor and a small crowd was starting to form around me. "I need some air," I think I screamed. Or maybe I whispered it. I couldn't tell. I bolted for the door. The feel of the crisp October air on my skin was comfort. Thankfully, no one came rushing after me. I could still hear my Papa whispering in my ear during that last hug of ours, "You are your mother's daughter." Those were the last words he ever said to me. And then he was gone. Gone because of a small piece of metal. Gone after he promised. Gone, to never come back.