It was frigid that February 14, 1948. My Momma and I stood outside on the steps and watched as the sky blazed red. I remember that glow. I remember that freezing cold night, wondering why my Daddy had gone out and there was tension and fear in our house. I felt it - but didn't understand it.
Later, much later, that night, I remember seeing Daddy walking up our dirt street holding the hand of a little boy about my age and a younger little girl in his arms. They spent the night at our house. Nothing was said that night about where they came from and why.
A young boy, his younger sister, and their Mother, would never forget that night. They learned to cope, but they didn't forget. This awful memory remains tucked away in my mind too. Sometimes it creeps out and I still can see the red glow in the sky. My heart hurts for my strong Daddy and those children he carried in his arms. It's easier now, but the memories are indelible, and will never die.
You see, the truth is, my Daddy, my cousins, and their Mother had witnessed the horrific death of their brother, father, and husband. Some memories are best forgotten. Some are so painful that they aren't discussed, they are suppressed, hoping that the pain of the event, the moment of horror, will be erased because it is willed to be. But the pain never goes away. Lives are forever changed.
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