Spaghetti And Westerns

Sensitive Themes: contains topics such as death, war, and bombings.

1960, July 28th

Dear Diary,

Everyone went to bed, so now I can write! I’m so happy, I can’t sleep! Mom and Dad are asleep, and they told me to go to bed a while ago, but I stayed up. I’m actually hiding under my blankets right now with my flashlight pointed at the page.

Today was so cool. Since Dad was off from work, he took me to the park, and we got ice cream. I got vanilla, and he got chocolate. While we were there, we fed the ducks. Afterwards, we went home, and Mom was cooking dinner.

Dad went to read in his study, and I helped Mom in the kitchen. She said we were having spaghetti, and spaghetti is my favorite! I helped sprinkle the cheese on the garlic bread, then Mom put the pan in the oven. When dinner was ready, I went to grab Dad from his office.

As we were eating, Mom and Dad put on a radio show. We listened to an old western, and the food was so yummy! I really liked the story on the radio. Mom and Dad seemed to like it too.

After dinner, we all got ready for bed. Mom came into my room and laid in bed with me for a little bit as Dad sat in his rocking chair and read a story. The story was nice; it was about birds flying through the sky and making friends. They got lost and had to ask other animals which way was south. They got turned around a lot, but eventually made it and found their family.

After Mom and Dad said goodnight, I had to wait until I heard Dad snoring from down the hall. I just couldn’t wait to write down all that’s happened today, and I’m even more excited for tomorrow. I get to go see Grandma and Grandpa!

Since tomorrow is Friday, Mom and Dad have a date. Which means that I get to spend the night at Grandma’s. Last week she said we could make cookies and decorate them, so I’m super excited! I hope we get to go swimming too! It’s been so hot outside recently!

Anyways, I should get to bed now. I’m supposed to be up early tomorrow to help Mom with chores in the morning. Thanks for listening to me again! Goodnight!

Signed, Dalia

The woman closes the diary, looking down at the cover as she does. The bright pink dots are faded against the blue background. The vibrancy worn down over the years in storage, hiding away in the boxes in her closet. The hands that hold the small journal are aged even more.

Calluses and wrinkles cover her hands from years of work and old age. Decades have passed through these hands, each second eroding her skin and bones. She is frailer than when she wrote these pages, but she is wiser. What comes with age might seem like a blessing–but to Dalia, it’s a curse and a burden.

As she sits in the dark living room, only lit by a small tealight candle and the fires in the distance shining through the window, sentimentality swallows her. She lifts the book to her chest, giving it a tight squeeze, the wrinkles around her eyes emphasized by the small tears that threaten to break free from their place. If only she had the power to go back, to change time, and to erase these scars she holds. However, she can only sit in the dark of the night and the dread of the morning.

Dalia puts the tattered journal down on the table in front of her. Her hands linger for a small moment as she imagines the faces of her parents, who have long since passed. Dalia, now at the age of seventy-four, has seen many things she is sure that her parents would never want their little girl to see. In some ways, she is glad that her parents are gone and don’t have to face the reality of what their world has become, but a part of her just wishes she could sit down with them and have dinner again.

Dalia jolts up in her seat as she hears a boom in the distance, followed by the rumbling of her home. Dust falls from the cracks of her home, seeing the same haggard state that she has seen through the years. As she looks out her window, she sees a sight she has grown quite accustomed to. A city full of fire and destruction.

Smoke fills the air as gunshots go off in the distance. Buildings crumble as a bomb goes off. Riots break out but are quickly shut down by military members cutting through the crowd with bullets. Peace was something that died long ago for Dalia, but pain is ongoing.

She has watched as mothers hold the corpses of their children. She has watched fathers be forced to leave their children behind to defend their nation. She has watched as someone’s son breathes his last breath on the battlefield, clinging to the hope of returning home someday. She has watched innocent people starve, weep, and their blood spill across the land that they grew up in.

Dalia wished there was a happy ending for these people, but she knew nothing would ever comfort the loss of innocence. She returns to her seat and watches out the window, and the flames grow brighter. Here she has made her home, and here she has made her bed. As smoke wafts through the city, she imagines her mother in the kitchen and her father in his study.

As the candle on the table burns out, the only light left is the raging fire outside as it spreads through the city. Devouring the people it burns and destroys hope. The world that Dalia grew up in is gone, lost somewhere in the gunfire, bombing, and grief. Death sneaks through the night, not allowing people rest and robbing them when they collapse from exhaustion.

Dalia can no longer sleep; however, it’s not because of the childhood excitement she once had–no, it’s because all night cries and screams ring throughout the city. All night, people are dying, and all night, people suffer. No, Dalia cannot sleep because when she does, she dreams of going to the park and eating ice cream with her father, only to wake up to the same destroyed city.