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    Lance Corporal Michael Mazzola stopped at the doorway and looked into the room. It looked the same as it had the last time he had seen it. Exactly the same. 

    The little white bed was clothed in the same pink quilted comforter, its pink quilted pillow cover at its head. The same shear white curtains hung with their little pink embroidered flowers. The same white dresser, stenciled with pink flowers, stood against the wall opposite the bed. In the corner next to the window, was the tiny pink table with its four tiny pink Michael Mazzola smiled, remembering how Grandpa had spent a whole weekend building the set and painting it white, only to be scolded by a sweet little four year old, “It has to be pink, Grampy. It just has to be.” Even the walls and carpet were a light pink.

    He stepped over the threshold and entered this fantasy world, where nothing ever changed, where nothing ever grew old or wore out. He felt a chill. “Oh, Ma. Oh, God,” he whispered, fighting back a sea of tears that threatened to burst forth at any moment. He felt his mother’s arm slip around his waist. “I know, Michael. I know,” she said in a soft voice. “Your father and Grandpa tried to talk me into giving it all to Goodwill, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. Not yet.”

    Michael turned to his mother, and took her into his arms, “I know Ma. I understand.” “Well, now,” she said, in an uplifted voice that really didn’t sound at all convincingly uplifted. “I’m going to leave you here for a few minutes with your memories and go make some coffee. But, don’t be too long, O.K?”

    As she turned and started down the hall, she added, “Grandpa will be home from his Bocce game soon and you know how he loves to see you in your uniform. Almost as an afterthought, she added, “I didn’t want him to go. I think he’s coming down with a cold or something. But, you know your grandfather when he wants to do something.”

    Michael watched his mother walk down the hall realizing just how much she had aged. Her beautiful red hair was more peppered with gray than he remembered. She had always been small, but she looked thinner and frail. She’d been through so much. First, Crystal at seven years old. She had been born with a congenital heart condition and the doctors had considered it a near-miracle that they had been blessed with her for as long as they had. Then, last year his father had died of a massive heart attack at the too young age of sixty-three.

    He walked back into the room and visited with his memories, his baby sister, and bittersweet memories.

    His grandfather was there when he came downstairs into the living room. “Mikey, how are you doing, boy?” his grandfather asked with a broad smile. “Come over here and give your old Grandpa a hug.”

    Smiling, Michael walked over and hugged his grandfather. “Hi, Gramps. How you doing? You look tired.”

    “Just a touch of the flu, I guess. I’ll be fine," his grandfather said as he eyed Michael’s chest. “What’s this? he exclaimed, “Do I see more medals here?”

    Michael’s smiled shyly, eyes dropping to the beige carpet. “Just a couple, Grandpa, just a couple.”

    His grandfather was more serious when he asked, “When is that damned war going to be over, Mikey? When are they going to bring the boys and girls home?”

    He gazed into his grandfather’s deep brown eyes. “I don’t know Grandpa. Soon I hope.”

    That evening his mother made him his favorite dinner; baked lasagna, stuffed artichokes, with home made pumpkin pie for dessert. After dinner, the three of them sat in the living room watching television and chatting small talk, Grandpa in his old leather recliner, and Michael sitting on the couch next to his mother. 

    Jeopardy had just ended when Michael said to them, “Look, I need to talk to you both.”  They looked at him with concern. “Ma, do you suppose we could sit in the kitchen and have a cup of coffee?” he asked.

    “Of course, Michael. I’ll put it on now. We’ll sit around the table and talk, just like we used to.” He saw a flicker of sadness cross his mother’s face. Through the years, when they