It Is That Time Of War Again
It is that time of war again.
Time for goodbyes and heartbreak, along with fear of the unknown. The taste of worry exists on every tongue. No man is safe from the rage, and if he is, he is a coward.
A girl in a pale blue dress is saying sayonara to the love of her life. Vivid red lipstick smothers his cheeks, and brightly painted finger nails clutch to his clothes. When will she see him again? No one knows. These might as well be their last moments- tears mixing in a salty mass, drowning out the crowd to escape a feud none of them had even started.
The screech of large green machines echoes through the valley as the unwanted transportation comes barreling down the path. The old men pick up their sacks and prepare for work. The new recruits scramble to find the reason they even signed up. Wouldn’t they all rather be clutching to mother’s skirts or hiding behind father’s belt? With a last kiss, pale blue lets go of her dearly beloved, and watches his familiar figure strut toward the mass of green monsters. That same walk, the one she watched for many years, will forever be etched in her memory.
Remembering one last parcel of due farewells, she runs to the bus and hands him a wrapped handkerchief, filled with her picture, a miniature locket of her hair, and a bible. No ordinary bible is this, however; it is their Sunday school bible from so many years ago --the Sunday school bible that brought them together and changed their worldly perspectives. The same book that had their love written on every page was the only thing she can send to defend his hope and courage. She holds his hand the whole way through, running until her legs can carry her no more, running until the very end of that small town path that keeps her locked away from a world she doesn't want to know.
And finally, once again, she lets go of his hand and weeps. Not tears on her face, but rain in her soul. Rain that might just wash away the blood of every other lost love, clutching the same bibles in different languages, the same lockets with different colored strands, and the same handkerchiefs, sprayed with different brands of perfume.
It is that time of war again.