again.
The fourth time, he never came out.
We were told he had been killed.
His belongings were collected.
His photograph was placed in the casualty records.
And I kept one small memory of him.
A brass pin.
The blue shield and white bird.
The same insignia I was wearing that afternoon.
I had not known the photograph on the dining hall wall was connected to his story.
I had not known anyone had kept this letter.
I unfolded it.
The paper crackled.
The first line was enough to make
my eyes fill.
Quinn,
If this ever reaches you, I hope it means somebody remembered.
I stopped reading.
Whitaker quietly moved a box of tissues toward me.
I took one.
Then I continued.
You once told me that the worst thing about war wasn’t the noise, the blood, or even the fear.
You said it was how quickly the world forgot the names of the people who had been there.
I told you that was nonsense.
You laughed at me.
I think you were right.
My eyes blurred.
Thomas had
