|
|
|
|
|
|
Washington, D.C./Memorial Day |
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
What makes this century worse than those that came
before
In fumes of care and sorrow that we feel
It penetrated to our deepest sore,
A wound so black it could not heal.
And still Earth's brilliant sun is shining in the West;
There, city roofs glisten with every ray. . . . ANNA AKHMATOVA |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Anna burned her hand on the hot handle and dropped the pot back onto the stove. Morgan, leaning against the door into the kitchen, laughed, then looked apologetic when she glared at him. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
''Don't laugh, damn it," she snapped. "This breakfast is supposed to be a festive occasion, with good food and drink and good companionshipa reunion before the great celebration. And so I burn the eggs, forget to buy frozen orange juice, and I don't think I have enough bread for toast. I'm not good at this, Morgan." |
|
|
|
|
|