The Itch

by David Dresner I figured all of them for the itch, and not the camp itch that our men have, but the seven year kind. Even the little one with the crescent moon scar from her temple to her chin: She had it too! There were children all over the house. Children hanging from oil lamps, fatherless and filthy, curled up on the floor, needing milk, medicine, climbing the pantry, needing more. They were looking at me like I was their pa, asking when the war was going to be over, asking me to stay, to help. I decided against … Continue reading The Itch