Dear Mr. Sunshine, “When will dad be home to sing me a lullaby again?” Those words are stapled to the back of my head every waking day by our daughter whose pouty lips tremble as she kisses your picture then slowly looks up at me, “soon.” What else am I to say when I ask myself the same **** question every day, every night and every year. Then the sirens sing, and we hide under a small table as a group of men search for explosives, gunshots echo through the shack and numb my ears a small girl from across the room coughs up tomato soup and is instantly tossed out onto the cold streets of the October blue
Dear Mr. Sunshine, It is now the end of December and instead of snow wrapped around our little town like a blanket there is chilled blue flames that leave children screaming screaming at the fire for taking their family.
Dear Mr. Sunshine, It has been months since you wrote back and years since I have seen you. Now it’s March and sky is flooded with silver waste and as I looked up from my balcony the door began to ring, I ran to the door and saw your bright blue face, with your soft pale eyes but your soul wasn’t you your mind had been replaced by the war. And as I opened my ears to speak I saw the knife in your hands and as you whispered “I love you” the light that was you went through the sharp jagged edges and sank into my heart, sunshine took over my lungs and darkness sunk behind my eyes Dear Mr. Sunshine, where are you?