“I’m not afraid of dying…” His amber eyes watered. “It’s being forgotten.” 

I’d met him mere hours ago, but pressed myself into him. “Then make me remember you.” 

He was ferocious at first. Rushed. Maybe he felt the claws of war tugging. 

But the second time, he was unhurried and tender, as though making a memory of something warm and soft to hold onto in the cold, heartless trenches. 

When I woke, he was gone. 

*

Had he received my letter before the bomb hit?

I cuddled our amber-eyed baby and knew that soldier would never be forgotten.