by Karin Terebessy
After the bomb, we learned to walk slow. Slow as acceptance. Laborious and dragging. Heavy as longing.
In just a few generations, the big people died off. Big lungs, big breaths, blood hungry for oxygen. We little ones survived. Sipping the sparse breath between.
We got smaller. Learned to breathe shallow. Practiced an economy of speech.
Five words per person. Five sounds. For a lifetime.
If I had it to do all over again, no doubt I would say:
I love you. Forgive me.