The Letter That Crossed an Ocean

My beloved Amélie,

I am writing this in a forest that is on fire, sitting against the trunk of a tree that has been splintered by shellfire, with the sound of guns so constant that I have forgotten what silence sounds like. But I have a moment — a single moment of quiet — and I will use it to tell you what I should have told you when I had the courage and the time.

I met you on a warm spring evening, in a village hall where someone was playing an accordion badly and the wine was sour. You were wearing a blue dress, and you laughed at something your friend said, and I — I stopped breathing. I had never seen anything so beautiful in my life. I crossed the room, my heart hammering, and I asked you to dance in the worst French you have ever heard. You said yes. I have been trying to deserve that yes ever since.

Do you remember the churchyard? The old stone wall with the moss growing through it, the evening light slanting through the leaves? I kissed you there, and I felt the world stop. The war, the noise, the fear — all of it fell away, and there was only you, your hand on my cheek, your breath against my skin. I have replayed that moment a thousand times in my mind. I have held it like a candle in the dark of this terrible place.

Amélie, I have no right to ask this. I am a foreign soldier with nothing to offer but a heart full of love and a hope that is probably foolish. But I must ask anyway, because if I die in this forest without asking, I will die with the words burning inside me.

If I survive this madness, will you be my wife?

I know it is too soon. I know we have had only one dance, one kiss, a handful of letters. But I know what I know. I know that you are the woman I have been looking for my whole life, and I know that if I walk away from this war alive, I will spend every day trying to be worthy of you. I will learn French properly. I will find work. I will build a life with you in whatever village you choose, and I will love you until the day I die — and beyond, if such a thing is possible.

I have written to my mother in Boston. I have told her about you. She says she already loves you, and she has never even met you. She says she always knew I would fall in love with France.

The leaves here are the color of fire. The autumn has turned the forest gold and red, and if I close my eyes I can almost believe I am home in New England, walking through the woods with nothing heavier than a book in my pocket. But then the guns start again, and I remember where I am.

I hear the guns again now. The officers are calling us forward. I will write more tomorrow, my love. Wait for me.

Yours forever, James

P.S. — If this letter reaches you with darker news, know that my last thought was of you. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. You were the reason I tried to be a better man.