Farewell

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Muddy hands. Photo by Chris Yang on Unsplash.

This letter may never find you. It may sit, unread, forever, in the pocket of a dead man. Yesterday we hurled ourselves over the lip of the trench, each man firing blindly. All I remember is the noise. The tinkle of spent bullet casings. The shouts and screams of angry men. I did not have to endure the cacophony long. I do not know how many steps I took before the explosion threw me across the battlefield. When I came to, I wiped the mud from my eyes. I found myself alone. My whole world had been reduced to a tiny hollow of earth carved out by the same mortar shell that nearly tore me to shreds.
Now, there is nowhere for me to go. I sit in this trap, counting the hours and minutes till death comes to collect me. If I try to return to our trench I will be shot in the back before I can take two steps. All I can do is wait and hope. I lie before, I am not entirely alone. I share my world with a corpse. I stole this scrap of paper and a pencil from the folds of his battered uniform. He did not seem to mind. If you read this, do not think of me in this place. This temple of mud and violence and death. See me as we walk hand in hand through the grassy meadows. See me as we stroll through the woods on a warm summer's day. See me, as I see you now, full of endless joy and hope. If you read this, do not think of me with sadness but be comforted by the life we shared, no matter how brief. Farewell, my dear.

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