Fox Hole

November 9th, 1918

Dearest Kathleen,

Snow came to wipe the sins of man. With it, the harsh punishment of blistering cold. Despite the heavy layers of white, it will never wash away the blood. Its stains are the remembrance of how far men will go when they believe the righteousness in what they’re fighting for.

Today I take advantage of a slow day. I hide from the wind in a dugout with only a small lantern to keep me warm. I sit on the ground as hard as Iron. My feet are so cold I risk a lashing from the Sargeant by removing my boots, and wrapping my feet in a sheepskin coat I claimed from a casualty. He was my friend. And I would only wish him the same if I was in his position.

I melted snow in a capstan tin with a small candle just so I could shave. There’s a lot of pride to maintain cleanliness of hygiene for such a putrid stink hole. The cuts on my face sting in this frigid air and I curse such ludicrous regulations. If I could eat the small candle without extinguishing the flame I would. Honest as my love for you, I would swallow that flame. Anyway, after my shave, in my stupidity, I left my lather brush in the water and it froze over.

Forgive me, I’m sure you don’t want to hear me bicker about my day. Despite the futility, I survive. I survive because I remember you in even the littlest of things. In the darkest of moments. And in the most inequitable of circumstances.

This morning, while on sentry duty, I saw a fox. The remissive sun rose and cast its brightness upon the cursed, and decaying. The snow’s perspirating flesh glistened. I was half asleep, and half dead from the cold, when I heard crunches in the snow, carried by a drift. And there it was, trotting with a poised carelessness I quickly envied. It began as a shadow gently leaving its footprints in the ground of red and white. As the sun ascended, and shined a light on the ominous stage of discord, its vibrant coat struck me with a humble calm. I grabbed my binoculars to get a better look. It’s orange and white fir gently swayed in the breeze-the cold air somehow making it appear more majestic. For weeks, all I’d seen was death, participating in it, getting buried by it, standing on it, when suddenly, I found hope in an alluring creature, connecting me back to you. Reminding me of the day I said I love you. I’m sure you remember but it brings me as much joy to reminisce through ink and paper, even if my fingers turn to icicles in the process.

I long for the youthful spirits we had back then. A carelessness comparable to our furry friend. Oh the nights we shared under the stars, a top your fathers barn. Until that well deserved night came.

You’d come to me with open arms, sneaking from your bedroom once again. We were Teenagers, stricken with nightly deviance, and blinded by infatuation. I followed behind you as you climbed, watching the subtle ripple of your nightgown. After hours under the seizing sky, you were close to falling asleep in my arms. Tiring of my terrible rendition of “The Shade of the Old Apple Tree.” You always said you liked my singing, but I know you’re just being nice. There was a scuffle in the barn. Our hearts leapt with fear, only to see a fox scurrying towards the helpless chickens. At first we laughed. Then we worried for the chickens. Through a space in the roof, I called to the pest. I tried to startle it, but we also didn’t want your father waking. I shouted a little louder, with each time my voice was ignored, a little louder. Then after all those years, sneaking, climbing, and gazing, the roof finally gave way. Fortunately there was a pile of hay to break our fall. Lucky for you, you fell on top of me, straw finding its way through your thick brown hair. At first we both panicked. When it was settled neither one of us was badly injured, we laughed. We laughed in spite of your front door opening and closing, in spite of your father’s boiling shouts, in spite of karmas cruel kiss, and in spite of possibly never seeing each other. Perhaps we laughed because we both know we weren’t ever going to let that happen. Your hair was beautiful in the moonlight bursting through the hole in the roof. Your eyes sparkled. Your smile was serene, and unperturbed by consequence.

“I love you.” I said.

And I said it again every day after, until we parted, and everyday still. I find hope in it. Cling to its invigorating power. After the earth beneath me quaked in violence, I found your love. After blood spilled in zealotry, I searched the sky for reason and traced your love in the stars. And after reapers sat at the edge of the trench, watching me anxiously as I froze in the night, I fought them off with your love.

Sorry for my outburst being proclaimed in such a morbid, and effusive way. But I only now share such bluntness, for the sake of what the French call ‘raison d’être.” Which means, “reason for being,” which is you.

You see my fearless hay jumper. I’m coming home. I’m coming home to you. I’m coming home to the smell of your earthy scent fresh from a misty morning on the farm. I’m coming home to your crooning of hymns while you help remove my boots. I’m coming home to your transcendent touch that’s helped put me to sleep during the coldest of nights in this trench. And when I arrive, It is your feet I will wash, for keeping me alive after all this time apart.

The war is ending, this cold heart still beats for you, and it looks forward to being thawed, and wrapped in the comfort of your unwavering essence of hope.

See you soon, Edward.