WHY CAN’T THEY ALL JUST GET ALONG?

He knew I was stopping by, so he had left the latch string out for me.  As always, marveled at this simple, but effective security system.  I announced my arrival with a loud hello and passed through the living room into the kitchen.  He didn’t answer me right away, so I assumed he was in the bathroom or otherwise indisposed, as was sometimes the case.

I was surprised to see him sitting at the kitchen table in his usual spot, with his newspaper and huge magnifying glass in his hand, uncharacteristically silent.

Thinking he was merely absorbed in his paper, I sat down opposite him and prepared to settle into our familiar routine of reading his letters before we went downstairs to carve.

He put down his magnifying glass, and pushed the paper at me, pointing at the headline “AMERICA AT WAR!” tears rolling down into the hollows of his cheeks.

“Why can’t they all just get along?” he said, his voice breaking, and he repeated, “Why can’t they all just get along?”

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