Sitting in my favorite coffeehouse with a new notebook and a hot cup of java is my idea of Heaven.
Libba BrayI stare at the pile of discarded remnants and think of my mother. Did she touch that pillar there? Does her scent still linger in a fragment of glass or a splinter of wood? A terrible emptiness settles into my chest. No matter how much I go about living, there are always small reminders that make the loss fresh again.
Libba BrayHe told me that once, in the war, heโd come upon a German soldier in the grass with his insides falling out; he was just lying there in agony. The soldier had looked up at Sergeant Leonard, and even though they didnโt speak the same language, they understood each other with just a look. The German lying on the ground; the American standing over him. He put a bullet in the soldierโs head. He didnโt do it with anger, as an enemy, but as a fellow man, one soldier helping another.
Libba Bray