> > Questions for My Grandfather!!

The snow settled on the old pine trees like an x-ray, searching out some kind of cancer, and the best that I can do is wonder just exactly what you'd say about it.

I was seven--almost eight, bouncing on a knee, and if I'd known anything of war not played with flimsy, dull-edged cards around an old extendable kitchen table every two Sundays, I might have asked. I'll bet it changes people, war, I mean. Lead-tipped and trigger-operated death, strafing all those mothers' sons, mortars like small-town fireworks, and everything I've read about.

It's cold here, and my footprints explode into this inch or two, and then disappear, lost with each gust of wind. And if I could, I'd ask how a kid no older than me can get sent to hell and live to talk about it.

Nice...