The Boy Who Died on His Wedding Day

My darling Emily, my wife,

I am writing this in the corner of a barn, on the back of a map, because I cannot bear to let this day end without setting down what it has meant to me. Four hours ago I held your hand at the altar. I watched you walk toward me in that white dress, the morning sun catching your hair, and I thought: this is the most beautiful thing I will ever see in my life. And now I am here, in this cold place, the echo of the vows still warm in my mouth, and I do not know if I will see the sun set.

Do you remember the taste of the champagne? The way the bubbles tickled your nose and made you laugh, that sound I love more than any music? I can still feel the fizz on my tongue. I can still feel the weight of the ring on your finger when I slid it on. Yours. Mine. Ours. I said the words and meant them with my whole body — for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. I did not know the worse would come so soon.

When the padre shook my hand and said “God go with you, my son,” I saw your eyes redden. You tried to be brave. You smiled that smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, the one you do when you are holding yourself together with both hands. I wanted to tell you I would come back. I wanted to promise you the future we dreamed of — the cottage with the blue door, the garden where we would grow vegetables, the children who would have your stubborn chin and my crooked grin. But I could not make myself say the words, because some part of me already knew.

I love you, Emily. I love you in a way that makes the rest of this — the mud, the fear, the endless waiting — feel like a bad dream from which I must surely wake. You are the only real thing in my life. You are the sun I measure my days by. If I fall today, I fall as your husband, and that will be enough. That will be everything.

The whistle will blow soon. I can hear the sergeants shouting. I have to go. But I leave this letter with the chaplain, and I leave my heart with you. Wait for me in the garden, my love. I will find my way to you.

Your ever-loving husband, Tom

P.S. — I tucked a petal from your bouquet into this letter. Keep it. It is the only part of our wedding day that did not end.