A last goodbye |Sonadow|

The Last Dinner

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I am not a fan of art; I don't understand it or see any shape in it. Throughout my life, I have met people like my father, who could spend hours talking about how influential artists such as Van Gogh, Da Vinci, Caravaggio, or many others were. It's not something that interests me in the slightest, and it really never will, but there are occasions when I think about it, think about that specific art work: The Last Dinner, that for better or for worse you showed me, and how from that moment on, I don't see it the same way.

It was a little past ten at night when General Knuckles called us all to an unexpected meeting. They had requested reinforcements; tomorrow morning a total of one hundred and thirty-nine soldiers would arrive to help us, three platoons. This was it; finally, this would end once and for all, finally, we would liberate South Island, you and I would be free, and we could get married as we had planned.

-To celebrate the upcoming arrival of our comrades, between the sergeant and I, we have prepared a dinner to share with you. It is important to emphasize that we have done our best with the rations we have; it wouldn't be very confident on our part to use all we have for food,- said the general, pausing briefly. -Tomorrow will be an important day for South Island; its victory depends on us. We will not let another soldier fall to North Island, and none of that will be possible without you, many veterans and other newcomers, but it has not been a major obstacle to show how willing they are to fulfill their duty and defend their nation alongside their people. I have nothing more to say; please help yourselves.- He finished his speech and left the tent; I assumed he would be the one on guard that night, but it wasn't something I paid too much attention to.

I still remember that night, the wooden table crowded with small portions of food barely held more than twelve people, but we made room anyway. The meals at the camp were already depressing, adding to the fact that we lived under a constant threat of enemy attacks that would interrupt what little "rest" we had. However, the atmosphere was different, melancholic, gloomy, despite the pleasant moment we shared. The small light bulb hanging from a thin wire could barely illuminate us enough to see your face at the other end of the table; something felt out of place, but everything was as it always was. I looked up hoping to meet your eyes, but it wasn't the case. You looked so peaceful while eating; just seeing you made all the noise at the table disappear; now it was just you and me, separated by the kilometer-long table that kept you away from me. I have the image etched in my memory, and I hope not to remember that day as I do, but it seems as if destiny wanted to tell us something. Something beyond our understanding.

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