Then she knew, soon he would have to go, to go East, and face his fate, the fate of a soldier.
Years later she would remember, his last letter from the front, the collapse, the ruins, the hunters in the streets…
Now she was smiling, for their son was there, a strong tall young man, with his father’s calm eyes, and hard fists.
He had done the pilgrimage once, to his father’s and his comrades tombs, far away, hard to find.
And he had captured the moment: when he lifted the steel helm, rusted by time, that now hung on the small wooden cross, one cross for four heroes.
Of Glass & Paper 
Well written. It sounds as if history will or has repeated itself. There’s a certain sadness here which is rather personal.
PS – Living in the N Y Metropolitan area, I’ve seen the painting up close and emotions it expresses can only be seen or felt when you’re standing right in front of it. Good choice for your post as it matches some of the emotions you’ve written about,
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Such a moving piece. xx
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