Something was over.
The war, I was told.
People were happy,
and I was two.
Seventy nine years later,
I look through family photographs,
one, me on my grandfather’s porch,
ringing a bell in a black and white world.
Whatever war was,
it was good it was over.
I was right to be happy.
We all were.
My Navy father was coming home.
My mothered cried in relief.
We had meat for supper.
My grandfather prayed.