all lovers go to war

and all lovers are doomed to die too soon
{another old assignment I've revisited}

June 3rd, 1915

My sister, ever blossomed-cheeked, ever bonny-eyed, sighed and told me that their love is like Eurydice and Orpheus.

I laughed into my tea to hide the truth of their story. But she knows.

She knows what she means.

She pats the dead baby in her belly, still, as if it was not ripped out a month ago.

I cannot bring myself to write more these days.


December 3rd, 1915

We buried Elliot alongside his brothers and forefathers today with a bouquet of magnolias and a medal from the army. I could not help but think, as I looked at my sister, red-cheeked and grey-eyed, that if she played her piano, he might rise tonight.

The End

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