I’ve been hiking up to those huge stone pillars that overlook the lee. Been heading up there twice a week, maybe, to watch the fog burn off in the morning and to burn off the alcohol when I go at the end of the day.
Mostly I just look and listen and think. The wind through the tall grass and the cold stone under me. My thoughts that never rest.
But last week I went up the long way, picking through the trees to the old pre-Federation cemetery. I always figured that’s where Nicky ended up, among those rows of unidentified Regulars that stretch out to the lower bluffs. I brought a yellow envelope with all his letters to me. The love letters, the work letters, the traveling letters, the end-of-love letters, and the going-to-war letters. I meant to burn them and set the ashes to the wind. But I couldn’t do it. I needed to cry over his grave but there was no telling which was his. He’s just gone and there’s nothing left of either of us.
I carried the envelope over the ridge and the hot dry wind that crossed the summit blew the tears into fluttering tendrils that found their way to my hairline and my ears. The pillars were cold as ever, somehow. Sunk too deeply into the ground to be moved by wind or revolution.