June 9th 1866
I’m sitting in my upstairs room on the corner of the bed, ‘writin this. The candlelight is dim, so excuse my bad handwriting. The door downstairs opens quietly. It’s my boy, come home from wherever he was. He’s a good boy, he is, but ever since he came back from the war… Anyway, he always stays up half the night, ‘doin lord only knows what. He’s a problem that boy. I always ask him what’s he ‘doin, but he just shuts his mouth and don’t say nothing. He rarely says anything anymore. Now he’s coming up the stairs real quiet like, my husband of course goes on snoring.
That man could sleep through a battle! He keeps a gun by his bed, he says to keep the Ku Klux Klansmen away, but if those evil people came I doubt my husband would even wake up! I guess I should go on to bed too.
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