My love,

I have no tears. I see your slender figure walk down the narrow path that winds along our field. The rye is high. Slowly, your back disappears, your uniform, the bag you slung over your shoulder.

My heart breaks. It breaks for the loss of my first love, the loss of all that could have been and that is now walking away with you.

You turned away from me with that glint in your eyes that speaks of heroic deeds and glory, and the curl of your lips that speaks of triumph. You leave your sisters, your wife, and your daughter to kill brothers, husbands, and fathers.

You leave to see the gore and blood and stink of war, to see young men crying for their mothers, pissing their pants, and dying in the trenches they dug for themselves. You leave to hear the screams of mules and horses, their lungs and feet burned from gas. Maybe your horse will be one of these horses. Maybe you will be one of these men.

The path is empty now. The sun hovers over the horizon.

I turn away.

I will not wait for you.

Agatha

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