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</o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--></head><body lang=EN-US link="#0563C1" vlink="#954F72" style='word-wrap:break-word'><div class=WordSection1><p class=MsoNormal>Farewell<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>By DeAnna Quietwater Noriega<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal> “Norah!” The young girl jerked bolt upright in bed, the sound of her name echoing in her head. Who had called her? She wrapped her thin arms tightly across her narrow chest. She listened intently for any sounds in the silence of the house. A branch of the old oak scraped against the shingles over her head. The wind moaned under the eaves. Dimly, she could make out the form of her younger sister Emily curled in sleep with Liam, their two year old brother nestled against her. All appeared quiet in the room across the hall where John, Simon and Patrick slept. What had awakened her? She must have been dreaming. Now that she was awake, she decided she was thirsty. She slipped from under the worn quilts and padded out of the room on wool stocking clad feet. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal> The doorway at the far end of the hall leading to the kitchen seemed bright with ambient light. A tall figure stepped in to that light. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal style='text-indent:.5in'>“Pa! When did you get home?” she called softly as she moved toward him. He raised a hand motioning her to stop, smiled placing a finger to his lips. For a moment they stood at opposite ends of the long hall. Then, Sean O’Connor turned away giving his eldest child one last glance and disappeared from the doorway. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal style='text-indent:.5in'>Norah ran down the hall. Reaching the kitchen, she paused in confusion. The room was empty. Slowly she crossed to the back door. The bolt was still pulled across and turned to the locked position. It wasn’t the kind that could be unlocked with a key. Tears filled her green eyes, as she scanned the dim kitchen. She realized that even if her father were there, the light wasn’t bright enough to have seen his face. Sorrow filled her as she squinted to make out the time on the old mantel clock. Norah didn’t need to wait for the telegram telling his family not to expect their father home again. She knew that somewhere on a battlefield half a world away Pa had started on his last journey. Nora also knew that she had inherited the “<i>gift or curse”</i> that had burdened her gram all the days of her long life. Each death of a loved one, each disaster or trouble would unfold before her eyes whether she wished to know or not. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>DeAnna Quietwater Noriega<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Cell: 573-544-3511<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Email: <a href="mailto:dqnoriega@gmail.com"><span style='color:#0563C1'>dqnoriega@gmail.com</span></a><o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Author of <i>Fifty Years of Walking with Friends<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class=MsoNormal><i>https://www.dldbooks.com/dqnoriega/</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p></div></body></html>