..., Mom," I answered softy.It had been ten years since I had spoken to my mother. The last time wespoke we had parted with both of us spewing hatred toward each other.That was when I walked out the door, never to return. It hadn't beengood, but I felt it was time to bury the hatchet. It was only three daysuntil Christmas, and this year I wanted to spend it with my mother andfather."John, John, is that really you?" my mother asked, with the obvioussurprise showing in her voice."Yes Mother, its me," I responded, as the sadness washed away, only tobe replaced with anger."My God Johnny, it's been ten years. Why haven't you called?" sheimplored.I wanted to snap at her, she knew why, but doing that would just widenthe gap between us once again."You know why Mom. I couldn't," I answered, as I buried my anger."I thought you were dead, and so did your father," she said."No mother, I'm not dead. Mom, I want to come home for Christmas," Isaid brightly, trying not to betray my feelings.I was met. Made fun of some people who deserved it, and of some who didn't. As the bottle of Riesling dried up, you flirted just enough to keep things interesting.Those were days of swing and strife. Something about people who shouted a lot, their ideas so loud they called themselves something ending in Ist. You agreed on the politics but argued anyway. 'Tis matter of manners... The devil must always have his advocate.Chaos loomed. The news was hushed and hurried along: someone had made a grand speech. And from the caresses of her tongue, the city neared the edge. Ah, the atmosphere! The beauty!The end of the world is so sweet to young people. The sole meunière was exquisite but the magret overcooked. The flesh barely bled under the knife. You shared a tiramisù and fought over the bill. The waiter was old and an arse. A stingy tip was the loudest form of your polite contempt.Walking side by side, you heard it first a street away from the restaurant. It was a deep roar, coming from the city's.
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