hailmoosifer

    When John first got his draft card we burned the edges with his cigarette. We didn't burn the whole thing, afraid it would get John arrested, or worse. So we stayed tucked away in our little apartment; the smell of ash filling the air. A small part of me wished burning the whole card meant John would get out of the draft, out of the war, out of the chaos our life was in. John and I knew that wouldn't be the case. John and I had been best friends since we were children, our mothers having grown up together. Now John and I were sharing a small apartment close to the college I attended and the garage John spent most of his time in. We lived