1917

December 31, 1917

  New Year’s was meant to be festive, filled with cheers, sparkling decorations, and resolutions whispered with hopeful determination—but this year, we weren’t celebrating much at all. The air felt heavy, like a blanket of unseen worry had settled over the house. It pressed against my chest, making each breath feel slightly slower, as if the world itself were bracing for something uncertain. I had gotten a toy plane for my birthday—a wind-up model that could take flight on its own. It was small, simple, and yet it offered a rare, almost rebellious flicker of joy in a world where the shadows of war and uncertainty stretched far beyond the frontiers of our town.

  The plane was neat, a simple escape that didn’t ask anything of me. It didn’t demand worry, didn’t care about telegrams arriving with grim news, or headlines that spoke in words too big for a ten-year-old to fully understand. It was a reminder of quiet, ordinary times, moments when the world didn’t feel poised on the edge of chaos. At half the price of my bike, it seemed like a small thing—but I cherished it just the same. My bike was my main companion, carrying me through dusty streets and over hills, letting me chase the wind on sunny afternoons. But this plane—it gave me something different: a moment of care-free flight, a fleeting brush with freedom. I named it the McDougall. I don’t know why. Maybe it just sounded right. Maybe, deep down, I needed something solid and dependable in a world that was growing increasingly unpredictable.

  “Watch this, Papa!” I shouted, my voice cutting through the thick quiet, and wound the little plane tightly, sending it soaring in a perfect arc. For a few glorious seconds, it hovered, spun, and danced in the air like a bird freed from its cage—but then—bam!—it collided with my father’s nose. The sound was soft, yet sharp enough to make my stomach twist. His hand flew to his face, and I could already see the trickle of blood spreading like ink on paper.

  “Ow!” he yelped, startled more than hurt. The sight of a nosebleed—what my old pediatrician liked to call epistaxis—made my heart hammer in my chest.

  “I’m so sorry, Papa!” I rushed over, guilt biting at my tongue. I hadn’t meant to hurt him, of course. I just wanted to show him my neat little toy, to share a moment of excitement, and now my demonstration had transformed into a small medical emergency.

  “Don’t worry about it,” my father said, trying to downplay it, his fingers pinching his nose to stop the bleeding. “Cassandra, could you give me a handkerchief?” he called to my mother.

  Her full name was Cassandra LeAnn South, but I’d never dream of calling her that. She was always Mom—anything else sounded formal, alien, wrong. If I’d dared, I would have been scolded for it in an instant.

  She hurried over with the handkerchief, pressing it gently into his hand. “What happened?” she asked, her eyes scanning the plane and then darting to me, sharp and questioning.

  “Just a little misfire,” he chuckled, trying to make light of the situation, though the faint redness around his nose told a different story.

  “I see that!” my mother scowled, her gaze sharp enough to cut through my thickening shame. I felt it deep inside—an entire river of guilt rushing through me, heavier than any punishment I’d ever faced.

  “I’m truly sorry, Mama!” I blurted out, hoping my words could carry some of the weight away.

  She sighed softly, her sharp expression melting into something gentler. “I know you are, sweetie. I’m not angry, just… concerned.”

  Concerned for me? That didn’t make sense. I was fine. My father was fine. It was just a nose, wasn’t it?

  “I’ll be okay, I promise,” I said, giving her a reassuring thumbs-up. My voice was smaller than I wanted, though, carrying both hope and apology.

  “I know you will be,” she chuckled lightly, and the tension eased just a fraction.

  Feeling slightly braver, I shifted topics. “Aren’t our neighbors coming?” Anxiety made my words quick, eager, craving normalcy.

  “Garfield has appendicitis. They can’t come,” my father said, matter-of-factly, as though illness were simply another unavoidable fact in life.

  “Damn,” I muttered before my mother’s glare froze me mid-word.

  “Don’t say that word, Jeremiah,” she warned, eyes hard as steel. When she spoke like that, it wasn’t negotiable. I swallowed my irritation and nodded.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, realizing this day would demand careful attention, even in my language.

  “Now, let’s celebrate!” my father exclaimed, a boldness that seemed to defy the heaviness of the room.

  “Let’s do it,” Mother said, her voice quieter, almost reluctant—but there was an acceptance in it.

  My father’s watch ticked steadily, polished and worn, marking each second as it crept toward midnight. The ticking was heavy in the silence, each tock a subtle heartbeat of anticipation. It reminded me of time’s fragility, how it could slip and twist and catch you off guard. Every second felt monumental, every breath of the family held tight in anxious hope.

  I couldn’t help but remember the past year. 1917 had been unrelenting. The Great War had consumed the world, and its shadow reached even into our small town. Telegrams had arrived at neighbors’ houses, the names of soldiers written in stiff, formal script—sometimes bearing news too dreadful to process. I remembered sitting in class, listening to whispers about friends’ fathers heading off to Europe, imagining the mud, the gunfire, and the loss. The weight of it all had pressed against our daily lives like a storm cloud, invisible but undeniable. Even simple celebrations had carried a sense of fragility, like joy might shatter at any moment.

  Finally, the moment came. “Happy New Year!” my father’s voice rang out as the clock struck midnight, echoing in the small room with relief, with fleeting joy.

  “Welcome to 1918,” I replied, a trace of dry humor in my tone, trying to pierce the tension with lightness.

  “Let’s make the best of this year, shall we?” he asked, glancing at both of us, his eyes gleaming with hope.

  “Let’s make the best of it,” Mother and I said together, our voices merging into the fragile yet persistent warmth of shared resolve.

  For a brief moment, the shadows of 1917 lifted. The world outside remained uncertain, the war still raging, whispers of grief and loss lingering like stubborn smoke—but inside, hope burned quietly.

  I let my eyelids grow heavy, surrendering to sleep’s gentle pull. My parents had indulged me long enough to witness the New Year, and the satisfaction of that simple acknowledgment was enough. White Fang by Jack London waited on my bedside, but the lure of dreams, soft and comforting, was impossible to resist.

  As I drifted into sleep, the hum of the world outside became a lullaby, the stillness of the house a gentle embrace. I felt the absence of my mother’s goodnight kiss—a subtle void in the familiar ritual—but allowed myself to sink into the darkness, carrying with me a flicker of hope for what the new year might bring.

  Outside, the wind whispered along empty streets, echoing the ghostly remembrances of a year filled with both small joys and enormous trials. Somewhere, a church bell chimed the hour, distant and haunting. It felt like a bridge between what had been and what could yet come—a reminder that time moved forward, whether the world was ready or not.