My father left school quickly to drop bombs on the fascists’ oil refineries, finishing 29 profitable missions earlier than being shot down, and, along with his males, spending the final six months of the battle in a POW camp.
My position as an anti-fascist is way much less thrilling, although, with becoming a member of protest marches and my day by day writing, I’d wish to assume I’ve made a distinction.
Miss you, Dad.
