By Jim Bates
We were sitting on the city dock. I was crying, “I don’t want you to leave.” He put an arm around my shoulder. “It’s okay, little man,” his term of endearment for me, his kid brother. “I’ll write every day.” Ron was eighteen and my hero. Early next morning he was leaving to go to war.
Later we walked along the shore. I got covered with bloodsuckers and he sat me down and picked them off, one by one. I’ll never forget his gentle touch, or how he dried my tears. Or that last day we were ever together.
“I write to try and bring a bit of happiness to people.” – the writer