John looks at the prompt, a little dismayed. If there is hurt, it is better not to keep worrying it, peeling back the healing flesh. When he was a boy Robert had always come for his birthday with his Uncle John. Or perhaps he had been taken into Fayetteville to their big house. They would sing - for him, there would be cake, new clothes, praise. When the war had come, that had ended. His father had not cared to notice, his mother was too ill and pre-occupied with fever. After the war there had been letters from his uncle and cousin, and small tokens from Thomas and William before they had left for Florida. Mattie had made his birthday special for those few years they had shared a home. She always remembered. All during his sojourn in the west she had sent not only letters, but small stories she had written just for him, and small trinkets. When he was in Tombstone, with all his troubles, she had sent a gold cross on a chain. There had been no party, no celebration for him, but Wyatt, when they had been in the same town, had always made a point of spending the day with him, having a drink, listening to him, spending the night. It was not the only time, but it was always on his birthday - something he did not dare expect or hope for, but something Wyatt always gave him.
Nothing else, and after that awful day in Albuquerque, there had been nothing at all. And now... he moves from hotel to hotel.
Ideally - company, quiet talk, a good meal, scotch. He would make a pie - peach caramel. Company. Companionship. Communion. His birthday. He tries to think - he has a birthday too. In August.Name: John H. Holliday, DDS.
Word Count: 297
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