Darkness pressed down as she knelt
before the gaping hole
and her future now defined
by a void stretched six feet
to forever.

She trembled beneath the weight
of the rose. Behind swollen
lids flashed images of what
she imagined to be
his last moments.

Punctuated by machine-gun fire,
bits of conversation
plucked from the past, she watched him
rush the hill, each muddy step
hard-fought, well-earned.

The enemy in retreat,
he gazed out across a sweeping landscape.

The glint of a rising sun
reflected off his blood-stained helmet.

Cast in an eerie rosy glow, he thought
of carefree childhood days in Alabama,
of running home to Momma after a game
of King of the Mountain with his best buddies,
of her throwing her wide arms and hugging him,
saying he would make a difference in this world
one day.

He knelt there, the gaping hole
too ponderous a thing
in the battle’s aftermath.

He took off his helmet
and lay his weapon down.

He wept for her.
He wept for him.
He wept for her long future without him.
He wept even for the wild-eyed boy
rushing up the hill toward him,
knowing the weight of war
would press down upon him, too,
one day.

Unwilling to surrender,
but tired of the game,
he stretched his arms
six feet across
and raised his head
to face down death.