Enrique's Writings

  “ It was about midmorning when we received the notification that the war was officially over ,” the old man said to his captive audience, concluding his talk. The old soldier had been sharing his experiences as an infantryman in Belgium during World War I. That afternoon in 1968, after his speech, another speaker was scheduled, a veteran of World War II. The audience had gathered for the inauguration of the “War Museum” in the small hamlet of Otonabee North. The town had contributed more soldiers than any other in southern Ontario, and its residents were proud of their heritage and longstanding support for veterans. The next speaker was a well-known and beloved member of the community, a quiet farmer who lived alone on a small dairy farm that had once belonged to his parents, in the very house where he was born. His family's story was a solemn reminder of the harsh reality of war. He was the only survivor. His older brother, a pilot with the First American Volunteer Group, also k...

It was a Thursday morning. I was in the kitchen, doing what I usually did at that time of the day, trying to call my mom. Every Thursday, I called her, just to hear her voice, to make sure she was okay. That morning, the home where she lived, call it a nursing home would be stretching it, didn’t answer. I waited a bit and called again. Still nothing.  A little uneasy, I dialed my brother to ask if he had heard from her. He didn’t answer either. I started to feel something, a vague, creeping discomfort. But I brushed it off.  Then suddenly, out of nowhere, the clock hanging on the kitchen wall crashed onto the floor. The glass shattered across the tiles, and the clock hands flew in different directions. The sound was so sharp, so final, it stunned me.  I stood there for a moment, trying to make sense of it. A gust of early spring wind, I told myself. Just a coincidence.  I opened the cupboard, pulled out the broom and dustpan, and began sweeping the glass. But as I mo...