Tin-can marriage

Tin-can marriage.


She, at first, as newborn wife. Would shout “My husband, the brave soldier!” Flourishing a match in delicate lace fingers until the fire dies, an unprecedented amount of smoke plumes from a burnt out phosphorus stick. She’d smile, devils advocate. War paint applied to her lips.
  Years on. Suburban morning horror stories delivered from hissing, crackling boxes. Letters- each time awaited, when received, all remembered are burnt black stripes.
  Hasty tin-can marriage, needle lifted, black reflective circle still spinning to no avail, nor sound. Around her, time erodes. At half forgotten faces blurred. Not enough memories to live on, never enough. Insubstantial clouds of past are torn in the winds of change. And desperately she stands. Blank faced and, immobile.
  At return - would love prevail? Would he smile at the babe who appeared some 9 months after he was long gone. Would he know her face, would she know his? Or would smog from the steam engine blur their embrace. Prevent memories from reforming, let them bleed into the polluted air and take what love, what lust, was there. Evaporated in the smoke of guns.
And if not? -widowed, single mum. Clinging to almost memories.
  How selfish was he, her soldier. To steal her life for his morale. How envious she was. Of women assured of their love. Their photographic proof. Their years of marriage behind them, to remember if they go. Guilty now, for feeling this. Their pain must be worse than hers. To know the greatness which they lost.
What right does she have to remove herself? A symbol of hope, of a life after years of death.  A way ahead for just one soldier. Her contribution to the war - a correspondent, a place in a heart untarnished. And so she waits patiently, dutifully. For the choice of death.
Walks. Unremarkable cobbled street. Enjoying the momentum of pace, the almost purposefulness of footfall-footfall. The heels ripple effect on thin rivers between each stone. Each step casting a different ripple, reflecting a slither of moon and the dagger torches sweeping the sky.
And then the klaxons cry.