#78: Don't forgive the people who started this war

I stopped into a third-rate pub near my home last night. A woman about my age was holding down the fort alone. She was gentle and pretty, but weary in the way I guess a lifetime of tending bar in third-rate pubs can make one. She sneaked herself a cold beer and told the handful of customers not to tell the owner. Then a song came on the radio and her eyes misted over. The song reminded of her son, Corey, who died three years ago at the age of 21 in Iraq. He was her only child.