Then Came War

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Harry Hayward had performed the same routine for nearly fifty years. Although there were times he had to deviate slightly, it was never much and never for long.

No matter what time of day he had to get up, Harry always woke before the alarm. He’d lie in bed until it sounded off and then swing his legs to the side of the bed and say a short prayer. Always, before standing up, he’d turn to his wife’s side of the bed and thank her for all the years she had given him, the love they shared, the home they built.

Since the moment he moved into the house in Windsor, Connecticut, this had been his routine.

As time moved on and he retired, he didn’t have to rush his morning routine and always prepared himself for a new body ache before he stood. He’d saunter down to the kitchen, make and have his coffee, wait for his bowels to kick into gear and then he could freely start his day.

He had worked in New York as a claims adjuster for the railroad when he was first married. But he hadn’t wanted to raise his children in the confines of a concrete jungle. It was worth the two and a half hour commute to see them running in grass, walking to school and playing in the street. But then, before his third child was born, he got a job as a brakeman for the railroad and was able to move into the suburbs. The hours were longer than they’d been when he worked in the city, but the money was better.

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