“Promises.” He sipped hot, bitter water.
The sun mocked him. A rusted steel sheet caught an eddy, sighed an arrhythmic tink into the silence. These oil fields died long ago.
He’d kept his promises. When the front collapsed into chaos, he’d still come home. To find his wife Susan, Jim.
Wind fluttered the hem of Bea’s coat. Another still body. She’d fallen there, her strings cut. “Living is to die trying.” She’d smiled when they met.
He took a deep breath.
Her unneeded canteen glinted in the sun. A gift. Life from death.
“Rest for now,” he said to himself.
Picture is copyright by Tommaso Galli.