1940By Erin, 15, NS
In the streets of London, in the cold of the night, there was boy that was a shivering bag of bones. In his torn little petticoat and tattered grey slacks, it was clear that it had been a long time since his mother lay her warm and safe hands over him. But he certainly wasn’t alone. With a bear that looked as worn out as him under his arm, he tried for the millionth time to slip off to sleep. It may have been missing an arm, an eye and a bit of stuffing, but it was always there and somehow always warm. And somehow, even though there was no one really there with him, he always felt like he was in perfect company.
They made it through all the loud bangs and booms that rang through the city, through the days when the boy’s tummy growled so loud he was sure the people on the other side of the city could hear it. And in the end, it was all worth it.
The boy grew out of his little slacks and his little coat and someone finally noticed him. He got a home to live in, a bed to sleep in, fresh clothes that were always clean and just the right size, a little amazing box called a television that he could watch pictures move on and a family that loved him dear.
He had a mother, a father, a sister, and five brothers. Sure, it got crowded and they fought, and sometimes his sister would whine that she was ignored by the boys, but he wouldn’t’ve had it any other way. Because every single night when the candle started flickering and his eyelids felt too heavy to hold open, he’d slip into his bed, tug up the blankets and hold his bear tight to his heart.
And every night, without fail, even if he was so tired he could feel himself half asleep, he’d make sure to whisper, “I told you we’d make it.”
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