From behind my food cart, I watched as the kids cheered on
the old men and women marching along, slower now with every passing year, as
well as those who could no longer walk.
“’Now there arose up a new king over Egypt,
which knew not Joseph.’”
I turned, and a young man stood there, his uniform covered
in dirt and red fluid.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Why are they celebrating war? War is horrible. War is
disgusting, and brutal, and not to be celebrated.”
“Remembering isn’t celebrating.” I managed, weakly.
He looked at me, then faded away.
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