SPEAKING OF MEMORIES

I sat across the table from a man who was a stranger; we were drinking our coffee as he spoke to me of memories of his youth; he told me of triumphs, love, hate, pain, and regret, yet he kept on speaking of his love, all things beautiful, and he kept talking of her with a child-like look in his eyes. He kept on saying that's not something you can put in a bag and buy.

This man I met that night told me how he was a soldier in more ways than one; he spun the truth until, at last, it all came undone. He spoke of his memories as they had happened minutes ago. He said to me Son, you are still young, and you need to know that there are more types of war than the ones only they speak of.

Take a deep breath as I see death in life unless you know how to live, especially if you do not carry on after a heartbreaking upset. I speak of my memories, for that is how that strange feeling of love will rest in my heart, and it will feel as if she has never gone away.