The Lives of the Dead

Some of the most interesting people I meet are dead…

The Bombs Bursting In Air



What I remember most was the howling of the sirens.  I was a small child when the war started, and all my memories of that life are tied to that sound.  The blaring alarms immediately preceded panic among the adults.  Each time, I was grabbed or pulled or carried to shelter where I huddled with my mother and father, neighbors and strangers — many, many strangers — all of us terrified.

Then, inevitably, the explosions, and the screaming and crying and delusional outbursts of those who’d gone mad with fear. Sometimes the destruction came so close I could see the wounded and the dead, the crimson of fresh blood.  I was fascinated by the gaping views into the inside of a human body, but my mother would quickly shield my eyes from the horror so I would be spared such memories. Soon came the keening and the weeping. An unbearable sense of helplessness settled upon us like a toxic dust.  We remained there, waiting for the all-clear, clinging, shivering; prisoners of our circumstances and our fear.

And then, one evening, the explosions were very loud.  A bomb fell on the roof above us, and a large chunk of cement from the collapsing ceiling fell on my head. It killed me instantly.

This was my brief childhood.  I did not know it was supposed to be any other way.



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One thought on “The Bombs Bursting In Air

  1. Janet Pipes on said:

    This is startling. “I did not know it was supposed to be any other way.”

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