Micro-story: War, travel and love.

Some time ago I took an extra shift as a nurse to keep company to an old lady who was lying in the hospital for a long time, always alone. I often spent time with her. Her hair was snow white, her eyes were light blue and her skin had folds full of stories. When I sat down next to her, she told me in a muffled voice:

-It was a beautiful love, the kind that leaves you with good memories. We were young, a bit stubborn, but with a deep love for each other. My travel was necessary, the second war was coming, he would catch up with me days later. The farewell was hopeful, the cold in my belly evidenced the nerves of such uncertainty. We had a motto, it was a bit corny, but it was meaningful to us. Always, when we said goodbye, we would say: "for a thousand more years" and we would raise an imaginary glass cup in simulation of a toast.

- What happened? - I asked intrigued.

- He died 10 days later, while fleeing to our reunion. He was caught in a wave of protests and a cannon fell on them. Oh, child, many innocent people suffer for the ambitions of others! - she replied.

I watched her close her eyes slowly as she held a small glass cup in both her hands, the last words her lips whispered were... "For a thousand years more".

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