My older sister whispered as we shifted from wake to sleep that WWIII would happen when I turned eight. I’ve done the math, she said, but don’t worry, eight’s a pretty good age to die, like Johnny, he’s eight right now. She wasn’t sure which country would start the war, only that it was imminent. She spoke calm and with certainty, as if the war was like Christmas, or some other holiday.
Earlier that day, we had flipped through our grandfather’s musty Book of WWII with its yellowed fringe and gray pictures, buildings and bodies cracked in ruin. A child in one, sprawled across cement steps, a pool which could have been water or oil but we knew was blood. A creak of the spine and it was over. Then we went upstairs for sandwiches.
Sara Dallmayr is originally from Kalamazoo, Michigan, where she attended Western Michigan University. Dallmayr’s work has appeared in Laurel Review, Third Coast, Sugar House Review, Penn Review, and others. She is a public school librarian in South Bend, Indiana, where she lives with her husband and two cats.
Collage art © Valentina Cozzi. All rights reserved. 
