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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: War and Military  |  House: Booksie Classic
This short story shows a man who has trouble accepting his past and is slowly losing his memory

Submitted: June 26, 2017

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Submitted: June 26, 2017



Even after all these years, it still felt like my leg was there . If I close my eyes hard enough, I could sometimes feel my toes wiggle. My doctor warned me that sometimes victims experienced that, but it didn't make it any easier.

I have not cried for years. At least not that I can remember. I don't remember much after the war, now that i think about it. I remember smoking in the trenches. I remember how to distinguish a Tommy from a MP40 from five miles away. I remember the smell. The smell that haunts every dream- I remember boarding a boat home With less than half the people I arrived with. Leaving friends and my right leg in a field in France. I remember coming home to the rubble That was once my house With my wife amongst the mess the bomb made. I remember crying then.

Ironically, I don't remember losing my leg.

I remember the cup of tea I had this morning. But I don't remember yesterday's dinner. I remember only What I wish To forget.

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