That night, we drank. Whatever was shoved into our hands. Raised our glass to the U S of A for not prohibiting us this time. For not taking away the only freedom it seemed we still had left.

That night, we danced. Grabbed our wives, or someone else’s. Cramped in our small apartments, four to a bedroom, we knocked the wooden floorboards with our torn boots, stomping out the pain and waking up the love.

That night, we dined. Grabbed the spoiled veggies and boiled the dirt off. Mashed it all into soup. Broke bread with our neighbors, tearing at the crumbs, sopping up the spilled wine on the floor.

That night, we dreamed of those who weren’t here. Of those who were far away, not able to enjoy this time with us. Them, lying in bed dreaming of America. Us, lying in bed dreaming of home. 

 

 

 

Adam Conner is a microfiction writer living in New Jersey with his wife and two daughters.