“…home”

This morning I had a memory of something my mother told us when we were little. This from during WW2. The Western Union boy, and then it was boys. They’d bike onto the block, and everyone knew what this meant. People would watch to see where he’d stop praying it wasn’t their house. The kid would go to a door. Then there’d be crying, and such. This as news that a son brother or father had been killed in action. This was that war at home.