Caroline Ambrose


It is late summer and your picture has been on my mantelpiece since early spring. For two seasons, I have been looking at your face, searching for the right words to write. If I’m honest, I’ve found it easier to look away from your heavy-lidded eyes and get on with my own life safely in the future, one hundred years on. But whenever I force myself to look you in the eyes, I see that you are trapped. That you are lost somewhere between raging and numb and I feel that there is nothing I, or anyone can possibly say to you.
And yet. In your hands there is a letter and the words written in that letter connect. It’s there, in those heavy lidded eyes. Something in those words whisks you up from the trench and back to a life before your living death. A letter filled with news from your loved ones, a shot of hope.
There is nothing I could every write which could come close, but that is not why I am writing to you now. I cannot send you love. I cannot write with news the world is no longer filled with war. All I can do is fire my letter off to join tens of thousands shooting back through time, tiny raging sparks against the darkest of skies.