sounds hollow: The war cannot go on forever?

(Yes, it can—for Emma, for her parents,

and in a different way for me, it will not end.)

We should be thankful we knew Frank?

(No amount of gratitude can make this loss less heavy.)

Emma, I finally say, thank you for walking to school

with Grace this year. She is so proud to be seen

with you—every morning she looks out the window,

waiting for you. When she catches her first glimpse

of you, she starts jumping up and down.

Emma smiles a little—Grace is a ray of light

in all our lives. It’s strange to go to school

without you, Muriel—nobody stands up

to Mr. Sander the way you did. And so many of the boys

have enlisted over the summer—it’s lonely now.

The creek is rushing past. We step to the edge

of the water and Emma tosses in a stone.

Then another, another, and another, each

larger than the one before, until she tries to lift

a rock so heavy she can’t budge it, and then she’s

crying, and all I can do is help her lift the rock,

swing it back and forth, back and forth again,

until together we can let it go, heaving it

out into the middle of the creek.

Blinding Light / Ollie

Blinding Light

Ollie

Just to check—a nightmare?

Stump of an arm? Does the pain mean

this all might be real? Pa’s letter … here it is.

“Frank was killed in action, Friday, August 31.”

That can’t be true. Frank—my closest friend! No.

I will wake up soon. Nurse, what am I doing here?

Shot just below my shoulder? Recuperating well?

Not possible. I’d remember that. Yes, it’s true—

while trying to save a wounded man. It was a

rat, not a man, I helped into a trench. No, a

tank was coming. Philip Ross—you saved

his life. Someone had a rifle. I tried to

jump into the trench. An explosion

burst. You’re lucky to be alive.

A Bullet and a Bandage / Muriel

A Bullet and a Bandage

Muriel

Emma, I say, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.

What is it? She opens her mouth to speak,

but can’t, reaching out instead to give me

a sealed letter, addressed to me—in Frank’s

handwriting. It’s my turn to be speechless.

The Army sent a box of Frank’s personal effects,

Emma tells me, trembling. I found this tucked

into his Bible. My parents haven’t seen it—

I won’t mention it to them unless you ask me to.

She gives my hand a squeeze, then leaves me alone.

I open the envelope, take out the letter

(several sheets of paper). August 27, 1917.

Dear Muriel, Frank began, as if it were one

of a hundred letters he would write to me.

They’ll censor much of what I want to say,