Kate Wilson

Writer

The thing that always seems saddest to me about war, are the lives that were never lived as a result. To me, this is the most painful thing about the death of a young person.

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Kate Wilson

Writer

Thomas,

I want to talk about our future.

We’d be married now, all the energy of our youthful embraces burning slower, the heat of our embers keeping us warm at night. Maybe there’d be a child rooted in me, spreading and growing until I’d look as swollen as a ripe peach.

Every evening we’d cook dinner together. The kitchen was always your domain. You’d instruct me on the items that needed dicing, showing me how to cut evenly with your arms around me. I’d marvel every night at the way you infused flavour in our food, magician like. We’d sip red wine and make plans.

Perhaps you’d be at University, finally earning the degree you’d always hoped for. I would take up teaching like we’d planned. Students would visit the house with thank you cards and we’d invite them in for a cup of tea with us. We’d catch one another’s eye and laugh at their exaggerated stories, hoping our own child would have such an active imagination.

As the years pass we’d find comfort in long weekends in the country, enjoying the slow moving hours spent on shady beaches. We’d get to know the new versions of ourselves, warming our hands on the sliding skin of each another’s aging bodies, wondering how we were ever so young.

After having lived a thousand lives together, one day we wouldn’t be, one of us slipping away, leaving the other to sleep through the remaining day until they were no more.
It would be quiet, peaceful. There would be few regrets.

I want to talk about the future we never had; the future that was stolen by men with dark thoughts and disregard.

Our dreams split in two in a distant land. One day I’ll go back and find them.

Yours,

Katherine

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