[He] crouched at the bottom of his foxhole and burned [her] letters. Then he burned the two photographs. There was a steady rain falling, which made it difficult, but he used heat tabs and Sterno to build a small fire, screening it with his body, holding the photographs over the tight blue flame with the tip of his fingers. He realized it was only a gesture. Stupid, he thought. Sentimental, too, but mostly just stupid. Besides, the letters were in his head. And even now, without photographs, [he] could see [her] playing volleyball in her white gym shorts and yellow T-shirt. He could see her moving in the rain. When the fire died out, [he] pulled his poncho over his shoulders and ate breakfast from a can. There was no great mystery, he decided. In those burned letters [she] had never mentioned the war, except to say,...take care of yourself. She wasnt involved. She signed the letters Love, but it wasnt love, and all the fine lines and technicalities did not matter. Virginity was no longer an issue. He hated her. Yes, he did. He hated her. Love too, but it was a hard, hating kind of love. The morning came up wet and blurry. Everything seemed part of everything else, the fog and [her] and the deepening rain. He was realistic about it. There was that new hardness in his stomach. He loved her but he hated her. No more fantasies, he told himself. -Tim OBrien, The Things They Carried
Posted on: Thu, 21 Nov 2013 22:40:49 +0000
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