As a little girl I loved strawberries. Excitement would rush through my body as I reached for the perfect strawberry in a field full of red. I remember red. Red meant happy. The strawberries were so dark and rich with sweet favor. My fingers were always stained with red color. Now that I am much older, looking back on these memories make me feel broken.

  I was so young and innocent and I didn’t understand what the strawberries truly bled. The life I had was not looked at the same way. The war began not too long after the Christmas of 1959. I no longer eat strawberries. The red juice reminds me of the blood of war. The blood that poured from every strawberry bled from every man.

  Years later I look back on strawberries with an ache in my chest. The sweet blood doesn’t drip from my lips anymore but it drips from my heart. The sap of the strawberry has become bloody and heavy. The sugar is now bitter. The strawberries that I remember are not rich with flavor. The childhood that bled from every strawberry was no more. Now that the war is over I wish my fingers were never stained red.