The Envelope

“There’s mail for you,” my mother said. I knew what it was. My mother never tells me there’s mail at night. She waited until now so that I could enjoy one of my last days at home before I’m shipped overseas. Or maybe it took her all day to muster the strength. Either way, the future was inevitable. “Okay.” I was in my room writing by candlelight, dreaming of writing or taking photos for The Globe one day, like my dad. As of late, I’d been practicing writing articles – wanted to be the one who wrote headlines like “How Canadians Stand the Strain of War at the Front,” or “No Foe Defences Can Stay British Onslaughts.” Usually, I would have been ecstatic to receive mail. It came far and few betw

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