He was beautiful.
The knight was beautiful,handsome when he smiled.
He didn’t want anyone to see it.
He didn’t want to acknowledge it himself.
But for a brief moment, I saw him. The real man inside of him, not the one tortured by secrets and pain.
And he was beautiful.

The shoes always tell the story,' said the shoe poet.
'Not always,' I countered.
'Yes, always. Your boots, they are expensive, well made. That tells me that you come from a wealthy family. But the style is one made for and older woman. That tell me they probably belong to your mother. A mother sacrificed her boots for her daughter. That tells me you are loved, my dear. And your mother is not here, so that tells me that you are sad, my dear. The shoes tell the story.

What did I want? I wanted the war to be over so I could ask her out.

But unlike Mama, I would not go to heaven. My secrets padlocked the gates. I'd be a torn kite stuck in the dead branches of a tree, unable to fly.

We cannot be too cautious, Hannelore. Just because someone knocks on the door doesn't mean you have to open it. Sometimes, sweet girl, there are wolves at the door. If we are not careful, they might eat us.

Sometimes there is such beauty in awkwardness.