1918

The jolt of the train woke me from my hard-won sleep. For some time I remained in bed, and my eyes trailed the swing of the short, white tablecloth. My compartment is small, but the table and its cloth were just out of reach from where I lay. Beyond it, through the window, I caught glimpses here and there of the half moon as it flashed through thick-standing pines. One often wonders how certain associations grow up in the soil of our souls. For a reason I'm not conscious of, these things reminded me of my failure to write to you while I've been gone. Perhaps there's no association at all. Perhaps the thought of you is simply always with me, and being awake with nothing but silence and soft moonlight was enough to bring you to the front of my distracted and tortured mind.

Now I sit in the dining car with thoughts and memories of you rising like the cigarette smoke of the passenger two tables down. It twists past his ear in an endless gray ribbon, attached yet disappearing in the shadows, but you remain -- that summer day we walked in the park remains.

It was then -- do you remember? -- when you had dipped your bare feet in the laughing stream, that I told you I had to go find him. I know I'm a fool for asking you to wait for me. Both then and now the hard reality of my foolishness rings in my ears like an evil echo. And when the train arrives in London later this morning, I fear you won't be there. I know we talked about how you'd be standing on the platform: a handful of wildflowers held close to your face, like the orchids Frost prayed to save from mowing. You'd be wearing the old, thin coat of mine you always wore with the collar up, and your head would be leaning on a post like you weren't there for any reason in particular. "Oh, hello," you'd say, as though the gulf of years apart were nothing to us, and we'd have sandwiches in the cafe before we spoke a word of my father.

We laughed then at the thought of anything parting us: years, distance, they were but vapor then to the breeze of our love. But the fool idea of my leaving at all echos once more, and I'm mad to think you'll be there. I sent the telegram like we agreed, but that's no guarantee you'll know I'm arriving. And I've been gone longer than intended; has it been two or three winters? Every time I think back over those days, I can't recount the exact number of months or seasons. Too much has gone through my mind since then -- moments lengthen beyond recognition, weeks and months fold one upon the other.

You said it wouldn't matter how long it took me, that I had to go, but we both knew the risk. Even if all went as planned -- we knew, but didn't say aloud -- I could come back with no more wholeness, or less, either my questions unanswered or answered too fully. The pines dance wildly now on my upturned palms; pale moon shines on pale skin, and the branches know this reflection of my heart -- somehow the dance is for me in this moment.

And then I think about the way things happened, and how I have to tell you even if you don't meet me at the station. Maybe you'll be married. Or you'll have sworn never to speak to me, but I have to tell you how he was; I owe that to us both somehow.

Let me straighten my thoughts first and hide from the shadows that flicker and tilt through the window; yes, that's it. With my eyes shut tightly against the present, I can see. It was the first winter I was gone:

I expected to find a grave. That's what so many others had found. But The Great War slashed holes through an equal number of minds as bodies; perhaps I wanted that, perhaps that would have been the easiest, and I found myself wanting his death to be the reason he never came back and never wrote.

No letter came -- but now I realize I've already said that. Forgive the tilting back and forth of my thoughts -- and no visit from the government made us all wonder. My sister and I watched our mother's anguish grow and eat away at her until she passed, no, better to say faded, away, and so his death seemed right at times.

Of course I mourned him. Yet, watching my mother's slow death turned much of my pain into bitterness -- maybe I even felt hope that I'd find he'd died in agonizing pain, too. And yet, I knew he would have come for her. His letters to her before their marriage revealed a love I realized I'd witnessed as a child.

Like in Frost, I was the walker who came across the unmown meadow full of stifling sweet aromas of pine sap and hidden flowers, the kind anyone would want to keep from mowing. All I have to do now is see his handwriting, and I am that walker once more.

My Dear Rose -- that's how they all began. When I read and reread his letters to her, and I did often before I left -- I do so even more now that I've seen him -- I remembered the look on her face when, on their anniversary, he'd walk past two jumping children clamoring for his attention and hand her unbloomed rose stems. "My lovely Rose," he'd say, "count these among a thousand other roses unwilling to blossom in your presence."

So, I had to know. And it was the shimmering memory of days like those that pushed me on through the first and then the second and third cemetery. I searched the burial documents, many times reading the entire contents for fear a bookkeeping mistake had been made -- and even then I'd spend days and weeks speaking to the oldest people I could find, showing them my father's picture and saying his name.

Saying his name. In over a decade I hadn't allowed myself to do such a thing. Now, as I did the first night on the train, I repeat it in the darkness and let the sound fall on my ears, fall on my mind. Somehow I see it growing there, a raw gem formed by the earth and lying in the sun.

And I fear sentiment. So I don't allow such thoughts to wipe away who he is now. So I remember as I let the silk of night touch me that I left him where I found him. I found him. I left.

Postmarks on his wartime letters showed me his movements through the country, and they revealed a trail through France that is scrambled in my mind now. Port cities on the southern and eastern coasts left me with similar impressions: water more blue than possible, old sailors and fishermen mending nets or huddled against the unseasonably cold breeze, and always the metallic smell of fish.

One bright summer day I met Sophie. Whether I sat in the garden the day or week I met her doesn't seem to matter anymore, but with the sound of her words I also see the trees and blossoms of that garden. There, on the warm south-facing wall, I was allowed to pick sundrenched fruit that melted on my lips. Yes, the words and the taste of pears are one now: "I know that boy." She said many other things to me, including where she first saw him and when she knew him, but that sentence was a full meal then -- even now it fills me with a stinging sweetness.

"I am sure of it," Sophie said to me, "because my sister loved him." She smiled at the memory. "There were many boys then; most came and passed on, and it seemed that all fell in love with her -- even I admit she was the most beautiful girl in Bordeaux -- but not that boy. That's why I know him so well; he caught her without meaning to, and it made her wild. I suppose I hoped he could see me instead of her, but he saw no one."

I pressed her to explain. She said he talked little, and always with a faraway look. Finally, with a hesitant expression on her brow, she said, "He is near." And those words, too, continue to sink into me, to open parts of me I had refused to know.

Like I mentioned, she said many other things to me. Over the course of an evening, while white ships sailed through the orange twilight on the Gironde, she tried to persuade me to take her with me, even not to go at all. She saw the pain in my eyes, and maybe she was right to try to keep me from him, but she ended by directing me up the Dordogne toward Sainte-Foy-Bordeaux.

Of course, I began to walk along the uneven streets toward him immediately. Soon, rain pattered on the rooftops, and the cobblestones became a makeshift series of streamlets -- murmuring, softly laughing streams. I stopped and stood listening all night to the sounds of the storm. In the morning, I walked into the countryside. It was my intention to arrive on foot, for no matter how much I'd rushed on and on, now that I knew I'd meet him, I had nothing to say.

Will you forgive me when I tell you that for days afterward I was consumed by that thought? I let it roam over me and keep me from going on to him, and from turning back to you. That first day I walked circles in the rain, never leaving sight of the city. And I don't know what finally made me go on, but I remember a kind of waking that came over me as if I were startled from a dream. I stood on a country road with my belongings on my back; ahead of and above me a mass of clouds swirled, but I remained, unable to move in my new wakefulness.

A mist gathered and swallowed me, and I had to walk slowly. Many times I had to stop. All around the trees dripped on the road, on last autumn's leaves, and on the sleepy meadow edges. I resolved to sit until the sun burned the fog away, but I couldn't bear the stillness. Soon, I was among white birches along the river bank, my eyes following the swift-moving swells, my mind clouded and restless yet again.

It must have been while I stood by the water that I heard the sound of the horse cart. The wheels creaked and a farmer called to his mule. I followed the sound until I was back on the road. The cart rolled just ahead, so I shouted to the man. He said little, but agreed to give me a ride.

My eyes closed quickly after we started, for the cart rocked gently in the soft ruts, and the male voice by my ear was deep and calm as it encouraged the animal forward. I slept until the sun fell on my face. It was afternoon.

"Sainte-Foy-Bordeaux?" I asked.

"One mile more," said my farmer.

I thanked him and slipped to the ground. He wouldn't take money and urged his mule forward. As I watched him ride up and then beyond the hill ahead, I realized how much good his presence did me, and I felt the lack suddenly -- a pang in my chest almost made me call him back, but no sound left my throat.

How I wanted to give up and come back to you that moment! My mind and my heart divided, the fog rose again though the sun shined. To want to have any other company but his -- and yet only his; to want to rush home to your arms -- and yet to want to search as long as it took to find him; I have no way to explain.

I stood there, these thoughts crashing around my mind, for much of the afternoon.

The click-clack of the train through the night comes to my ears now, the melodic movement of the dining car reaches for me and rocks those memories away for a moment. And I welcome distraction -- but where's the smoker? No doubt he sleeps, his restless thoughts singed and smothered by the tinge in his lungs and nostrils.

Do you see how I still avoid him? Maybe these thoughts are my way of telling all to you -- for the night sky tells me you won't meet me...

Through the window a glimpse of sunrise. All the usual colours attend: the same soft lavender, the same pink waltzing in orange -- the same colours I walked among the evening I entered the village.

But how much do I tell? That again the rain followed me down the road and into the village where he had lived these many years? That I stood and stared at the small houses, soaked and unaware of the cold, and tried to see him in each one? That the fires sending smoke into the shadows in endless gray ribbons warmed strangers, warmed him who I knew not? That I felt certain that if he would know me at all, he would recognize me at once?

I stumbled upon a small inn, where I thought I'd find a meal and a bed for what remained of the night. But the first night turned into many, many more. And time, once again, seems impossible to measure. Only fragments of what happened remain; I'll tell them, sift through them, and maybe more will surface as I collect and recollect:

The sound of his boots' leather as he walked into the public house; the light that still burned in his eyes; the sound of his voice inquiring about the post.

Was it the next morning I saw him? Let it be so -- yes, the day was bright and warm, yet I could not walk the streets, I could not bring myself to speak to anyone. A blank space in my mind grows from that moment, and it threatens me now -- I leave so much out! I sat and tried to keep from the light streaking in at the windows and the door. The sound of squeaking leather. That's what brought me out of myself then, and the memory of it is a link to my sanity now. How could the agony of losing him be swallowed by the agony of finding him? But the old leather --

I lifted my head and saw only his back. He stood with one hand on the bar; his uniform was crisp and spotless, and his other hand held his hat. He said something in French. The sound of his leather boots carried him out into the light of day.

That sound. I came to treasure and long for it. I could hear it over rain, over the hum of conversation, over the vague dreams that followed me into morning and beyond.

An accident brought us face to face just for a moment. I had slept late. That night I had tossed more than I had rested, and with the dawn I finally found sleep. Noise on the street woke me, and panic gripped my scalp -- I feared I would miss him.

I hurried down the narrow flight of steps that led from my room to the street. All my mind contained was the thought that I would have to wait yet another day, another sleepless night, before he would appear again -- and then I was at the threshold of the public house, my own father holding the door for me.

His eyes! They were jewels I wanted to inspect, so bright and clear. Innumerable memories and fears fluttered and mixed as though right before my own eyes. My breath caught. I nodded my head in thanks and brushed past.

I wept at my table, thankful for the shadows.

Need I explain to you what I see now when I let my eyes close? The nights became more than I could bare, and I slept little. Just outside the village I walked under the burning stars, but I did not want their company. Only when the leaves overhead blocked heaven out, and the business of the nocturnes filled my ears did I find rest from his eyes.

Here, the gentle rocking of the train whispers to me that my dreams confuse. Yet it was so to my feeble senses: I sat on the forest floor, my face buried in my hands. A simple phrase entered my ears, a simple request: "La poste?" Without looking I knew it was him, but I did look, and the trees made for me the bar at the public house, my father's back just a step away.

I stood and upset my chair. Lost again to a waking dream, the barkeep had to shake my shoulder for me to hear. "L' anglais?" Somehow I answered, and he bade me sit in the waning light, away from the dark corner. He set food and drink in front of me and produced several envelopes from a small drawer.

He knew. He pointed to the letters, then at the door, then at my face. "This -- your cheeks. They are his." For some time he sat with me and I ate, not daring to touch my father's letters. Finally he said, "The first ones come back. Then all." I looked closer. Not one was addressed; all of them had my mother's name printed clearly, and the public house's symbol and number were inked neatly in each corner. He had collected them for a day such as this.

"Thank you." I scooped my father's letters into my shaking hands and walked into the twilight. I staggered and felt my way forward.

I remember that I leaned on the wall of the stairway halfway up to my room. The street I kept to my back, and the glow that seeped around the door behind me hit at my knees. My head and hands, which still held the letters, hid in ever-increasing black. Sounds of the day receded, and the village prepared for sleep.

Of a sudden I knew I had to move -- I had to free myself of the narrow stairway. The glow stood at my feet then, and I panicked at the thought of night finding me still there. With an effort that seemed to be final, I lunged for the landing and crawled to my room.

You will understand. I know how your eyes will drink me in, how you will cry for me -- perhaps you have already. But I have cried for you, too, my love. These years, these costly years.

I wanted to rip the letters open and read all. A small candle flickered from the other room, casting all manner of shapes upon the floor, upon my full hands. Dawn broke. I stirred and saw the letters spread around me. Sleep had come, but it came and went stealthily, and soft morning had entered along the cracks of the curtained window. Night rushed away.

My fingers worked at the nearest seal. Weariness shielded me, and my mind focused on the contents of the envelope. How was that night and morning not a stumbling upon my own grave? How did my hands do their work? How did my mind know the words unfolded before my face?

My Dear Rose...

But I got no further than that -- and the date in the corner confirmed all: November, 1918. His handwriting took me back to the letters I knew almost by heart; once again I walked the small meadow, and briefly I glimpsed his flowers that yet poked their heads amidst the long grass.

None of those letters are with me now. Sleep, night, dreams, they all rock back and forth, softly easing my memories from me; I don't resist. I know I walked back to Bordeaux, but when? That morning? No matter. From that morning this thought consumed me, and I allowed it to do so: that it was a mercy to leave him as he is, for his Rose lives.

Yes, that's why I have to tell you that all the weights I carried of things unknown are gone -- and in their place is one precise and unbearable wound.

Yet, with you...

Clean morning light. Pine trees hurtle past, and again I think of Frost as I pray to "obtain such grace of hours" when -- if -- I catch sight of you on the platform. But what was that flash of colour? How I long to say it was a meadow of tall grass confused with flowers. Perhaps a laughing stream.

The train whistles. People mill about and then fill the cars. I press through the sudden crowd, and I feel the wheels brake. Soon, the station will roll into view. No time for collecting my things, no time to wait for the train to fully stop. Steam rushes past my face as I lean far out to look for you -- I search only for this: the tips of colour my eyes ache to catch sight of, your hands full of orchises.