Eleventh day of the Eleventh month: OTA
The date on the calender marked the 'holiday' in simple text-a side note almost: 'Veterans Day.' It would go on unnoticed, because of the lack of government run agencies and-to her knowledge-not enough American servicemen or women to make such a dent in the village.
In spite of what she told Henry, the truth was that Sonya hadn't gone to church in years. Oh sure, there was the occasional prayer service, but it wasn't the usual Mass. In the span of her career, the only time she'd been required to go to church was a funeral service. Having to face the deceased soldiers' families, try to give some 'explanation' to what happened-such duties always ended up hurting more than any physical wound earned in combat. They always wanted an explanation, always wanted a clean cut answer-the truth was that Sonya never had one. Soldiers died in combat, the same soldiers that she'd trained with, suffered with, celebrated with-she had no answer to give, because she had long accepted that there wasn't one.
She wrapped her coat tighter around her dress uniform, making sure the green beret she wore was still pinned in place: it was. The dark green army tunic and black skirt weren't the most comfortable of uniforms, especially trying to tie a dress blouse over her cast, but they weren't designed to be that way. If she couldn't honor her men with a proper memorial, she'd honor them by reminding herself of who-at the core-she was, and what she belonged to.
ooc: Sonya's feeling both pensive and nostalgic. Catch her either on her way to church or inside with her sitting on one of the pews.
In spite of what she told Henry, the truth was that Sonya hadn't gone to church in years. Oh sure, there was the occasional prayer service, but it wasn't the usual Mass. In the span of her career, the only time she'd been required to go to church was a funeral service. Having to face the deceased soldiers' families, try to give some 'explanation' to what happened-such duties always ended up hurting more than any physical wound earned in combat. They always wanted an explanation, always wanted a clean cut answer-the truth was that Sonya never had one. Soldiers died in combat, the same soldiers that she'd trained with, suffered with, celebrated with-she had no answer to give, because she had long accepted that there wasn't one.
She wrapped her coat tighter around her dress uniform, making sure the green beret she wore was still pinned in place: it was. The dark green army tunic and black skirt weren't the most comfortable of uniforms, especially trying to tie a dress blouse over her cast, but they weren't designed to be that way. If she couldn't honor her men with a proper memorial, she'd honor them by reminding herself of who-at the core-she was, and what she belonged to.
ooc: Sonya's feeling both pensive and nostalgic. Catch her either on her way to church or inside with her sitting on one of the pews.