"Goodbye," by Mary Chittle

The train station was full of tearful farewells. Everywhere I looked I saw wives clinging to their husbands, boyfriends kissing their girlfriends, children waving frantically to their fathers, mothers holding sons for maybe the last time. My wife and I walked hand in hand to the ticket counter, now serving as a check-in station for the men (many of them, in truth, only boys) who had been drafted or taken up the call to serve their country overseas in the war. I signed my name in the ledger, receiving a tag for my luggage and a packet of papers detailing my assignment and company. Exiting the station onto the platform, we walked in silence, weaving between the parting families until we came alongside the train car that would take me across the country to the docks where I would board a ship destined for the bloodied and war-torn shores of France.

Setting my bag on the wooden deck soaked and worn with years of heartbreak and elation, I turned to my wife, unwilling and unprepared to say goodbye.

My eyes traced every line of her beautiful face, and although I knew each freckle and  curve intimately, I could not tear my gaze away for fear I might miss something and not be able to recall it later, when I was alone amidst the horrors of war. The soft lift of her chin, her delicate, upturned nose, the way the gold flecks in her emerald eyes danced when she laughed. She was not laughing now, and I searched for something to say, a joke or a quip, so that I might see the green come to life with a waltz meant only for me. I found none.

The chilled breeze lifted tendrils of her chestnut curls, tickling the back of my hand as I set my palm against her cheek, marveling once again at its softness. My calloused thumb traced the outline of her full red lips, chapped from the cold, and they parted, kissing my skin as a droplet landed on my hand.

I looked up to meet her eyes and felt I would drown in the depth of the emotion I found swimming there amongst the tears. Love and fear mingled with pain and sorrow, each warring for dominance. I brought my other hand to her cheek, cupping her head in my hands, and leaned down, bringing my lips to hers and pouring every ounce of my love for her and the promise that this touch was not our last. Her hands rose to clutch my wrists, wordlessly promising the same. 

Ending it, I placed another kiss on her nose, and pulled her close against my chest, her arms wrapping around my waist as I buried my face in her hair, breathing in her clean, floral scent, bottling it into my memory where it could not be taken from me, where she could never be lost. 

I could feel her shoulders shaking and I pulled back, the ache in me deepening at the sight of the tears racing each other down her cheeks. Feeling tears finally beginning to slip down my own face, I bent and picked up my standard-issue duffel bag and turned to leave. Her hand gripped the fabric of my uniform and I turned back. 

“I love you,” she whispered through her sorrow. 

Resting my forehead against her for a moment I whispered back, “I love you too. Forever.”

The train whistle blew.

I held my wife for what could be the last time. Releasing her, I stepped aboard, my eyes never leaving hers. As the train pulled out of the station, her gaze held mine, and I kept the image of her in my heart: tear-streaked but beautiful, scared but strong, eyes brimming with hope, overflowing with pain, but believing with every ounce of her strength the promise that I gave her. And I knew, I felt it in my bones; I would do whatever necessary to survive this war, I would hold her in my arms again, return to her and fulfill my promise. As the train followed the bend in the tracks around a curve, she faded from my sight, but never from my memory.