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Intermediate. Years 7/8/9

Lucky To Have You Home

By Jamie Wrench, year 7, Elizabeth College

I was lucky to get my dad back, I thought, with a tear in my eye. I talk to him often about his adventures in the battlefields, who he met, what it felt like, and so on. It's so easy to picture yet so hard to imagine; the echo of gunfire, the constant eruptions of gas, the vast ocean of screams and bodies overflowing as the day turned to night.
The more I think about it, the luckier it seems to get my dad back, I think, with the salt of my tears reaching the tip of my tongue. I hear stories about the array of unidentified soldiers, with unidentified families, with unidentified burial locations. I'm just relieved it's all over.
As the warm teardrops slowly stop flowing, I begin to realise how many children, just like me, will never see their dad again, or maybe it's their uncle, or even their brother, who set off to make their nation proud, but at a costly price, their own life.
It's unimaginable to me what people will do for their country, knowing that they may never see their family again, so I suppose it it's more than lucky for my dad to come home.
I remember asking him,"Daddy, where are you going?" And he would just kiss me gently on the forehead and reply with, "Daddy's going somewhere dangerous, very dangerous. I won't return for a long time, so look after you mother for me."
I still talk to him now quite often, he lies there, while I sit down on the nearest stool, or on a bench. But the benches are too far away to talk to my dad...
Under his moss-covered grave.

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