A Moment With You.

1

April 1945, Germany.

Voices.

Voices, It's one of those memories that I never forgot.
    Not just voices, or  people, but us, together. There was also the smell of freshly roasted coffee brewing in the morning.  Perhaps, at times, even a lingering, never-forgotten touch from your small, frail hand. Then there were minuscule, warm memories of you sitting there, on that window ledge as you read a book.

It reminded me of how you left little footnotes here and there with drawn symbols and tampered names with hearts around them.

And seldom would I cry, but instead I'd selfishly leave small fragments of myself in each of your days, so that with every night that you went to bed, to face your demons, you'd remember me. For what little it may have counted, it allowed you to think for a moment that someone once loved you. And, sometimes, it'd leave me wondering if life could have turned out different. A slightly greener side, less tears and more smiles that carved an eternity of memories into our minds.

You once laid beside me, your hair tangled and messy. The smell of your skin next to mine, it left me always being grateful for each and every day that passed on by. You told me that you wanted to make me forget the feeling of sunshine, just so that you could make me experience it all again. I realise that our existence can only be mirrored in the eyes of others, but I would selfishly wish that you'd see yours through mine. For all the time that I loved you, the hours of which I spent writing you letters, there was never once a day in which your glow dimmed even a little bit.  It made me think for a moment.

Do we ever wonder, if perhaps, there's a person out there that's almost exactly like the one we just lost? Someone who can hit you, strongly, like the scent of a new perfume. Like the taste of a mid-summer wine out in the fields of Italy. A fresh, yet frightening soul. One that leaves you thinking, feeling, and even retaliating towards your own heart and mind. Perhaps they are a little bit kinder, a little bit stronger, and a whole lot better in bed. And that might be magic and kindling fire all in one. That's when you know true love is blossoming, yielding a romance that enveloped into a beautiful blossom and the sweet release of love. Yet, those few, short-lived, quiet moments together -- they're the type of memories that I couldn't ever see myself throwing away. A sort of blossoming, heart-to-heart, and soul-to-soul.

In the end, that's all we ever truly need: A soulmate, one that can respect you, treat you like an equal, and feel like home. A divine love, one that can bring you warmth and safety. As though it was a touch on your skin by the angelic hand of something new, unknown, yet terrifyingly loving, in ways never felt, or seen before.

Though, those memories retain a heavy sense of all things dreadful – you remain a beautiful ghost of my mind in which I remember you so. Songs, those songs that you used to sing – they break me utterly. God, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry... These days, I've spent them drinking, smoking, sleeping with different women to avoid heartbreak on harsh nights. Yet every time I looked at the reflection of the window, I saw us. Every touch from another woman, although soothing, disturbs me even more. I miss you, Elizabeth, I miss you... And our son. Oh, our poor son. John, you'll be an alright man, you will. Daddy loves you.

But our story doesn't end here, does it? No, it never did... Looking into that little locket you gave me, I see a last, breathing letter of sentiment as my admiration for you brings me into a deepened, saddened tour into the past, in the year of 1915, when it all started. 1915, can you believe it? I'm that old. Jesus, to think I'd be out here amidst the krauts thinking back to an age where giants walked among us, with their memories reaching back to everything they once saw. Titans of literature, music, and visual art. Names like the famous sculptor Jacob Epstein, the writers Fountain Hughes and John Steinbeck, as well as James T. Farrell. Hell, even Picasso, detestable till his last breath. God have mercy on such a foul man. It was also the year where one of the greatest jazz-musicians would come to be birthed into this cruel world: Ella Fitzgerald. It was during a time where the greats walked this earth and the many artists around the world were deemed to be gold, like a trophy on the colored walls of an aristocrat, held in the highest of honors. No field upturned, no inch left unconquered. Where the blue sky meets a beautifully bright sun that glows miraculously. Among the living and the dead, there was a brief but gentle moment of silence and love. It was these tender, calm, and peaceful moments in life that reminded me of the past, of the working man, the loving artist, couples that shared bonds as strong as metal chains. But then, I thought to myself: What if, one day, you found out you're dying? What would anyone do? Things on their mind? Questions that need answers? Or maybe even regrets? Any unfinished dreams? If the answer is no, then I'd congratulate them. If the answer was yes... Well, they'd probably be in for one hell of a ride there. I think I would be, at least. Not that it matters anymore. All I could see was smoke, bullets and the shouts of the brave men I served with.

I wondered, if the average man could, would they perhaps like to wine, dine and lay with their beloved partner throughout the gentle night that is to come? I certainly would. Though, there's also the slim chance they'd maybe give in towards that brisk light at the end of the tunnel that calls them so, warm and welcoming with all of its essence that one may call 'Death' and others may call 'Rest.'

In the end, there's probably nothing we can do, anyway. There's nothing we can use to cure death, and there's nothing we can really do to stop it either. Dying is the ultimate punishment. A silent, ultimately destructive and soul-shattering type of crack that begins destroying you from the inside out. Like a vase, slowly, bit by bit, ruined by the cracks inside of it. What is one to do when all of the universe seems to be in a battle against one single man and his fate? So you carry on like a wanderer; wayward towards new beginnings, leaving ends at closed doors in the past. Though, if by chance, I could live again, I would do all of what I've done over, with the slightest change in one single decision: Marry the woman whom I cherished much earlier, in my younger, more vulnerable years. Or well, I believe perhaps they would indulge in other matters. But who am I to say, as just a wayfaring stranger. Whoever might be out there in this vast, glorious, rich world filled with golden talents and hearts aflame with passion, I would hope that they would end up choosing love. Albeit, life may not be all of what I so much desired it to be, and the world around us may also be filled with terrors of our greed; I choose to still believe that in this world of twisted fates with mortal endings, there may yet be a happy end for one like I. In the end, the only thing we want is to be accepted and loved for who we truly are - the little monsters that we've all become.