Prisoner of War

I know I am lost. I am a prisoner of war. My captors daily torture me, but leave in my cell a little pill, a cyanide solution. I have been tempted, sometimes holding the pill in my hand, looking it over, opening my mouth and drawing it near. Once, the decision rested on the mere flip of a coin. The coin was a gift from my mother, a commemorative piece which has no real value, so my captors let me keep it. It came up heads that day. Otherwise I would not be here.

Before the war, I lost loved ones. I know how it feels to come to terms with the fact that I'll never see those people again. Yet still many remain. I have children. So I am very sorry to say that I flipped that coin, but thankful that it came up heads.

Will my children still love me? I am not the person I was before being dragged into this war. I am a broken mass that must hold itself together as it shambles toward an uncertain fate.

Will they even recognize me? My youngest children were only eight months and two years old, last I saw them. Of course they won't remember; but my oldest was eight years along. I think of her everyday. She must think of me too, we were so close. If she had to stop thinking about me so it would not hurt so much, I could not blame her. I'll never stop thinking of her or her brother and sister. It will never stop hurting.

I am estranged from their mother. Yet I cannot believe she would want them to go through this loss, this grief, this absence; but then, I could never understand the harsh words she hurled at me in volatile moments.

Did this war suck me in to eat my soul, or did I run into it willingly to throw myself away?

Somewhere, someone is worried about me. I love them, and I want to see them again.

My captors will return soon. They will beat me, spit on me, and call me names. They will leave their bitter pill.

I won't take it though. I don't even pick it up anymore.

The lone window in my cell is barred, but I can still see out through the space between the bars. It looks down on a parking lot, dotted with lampposts. I awoke early this morning, before the sun rose. The lights were still shining on the mostly empty lot, and it had just started snowing. I could see speckles moving in the pools of electric light, hordes of tiny shadows cast by the drifting snowflakes.

This made me inestimably happy. I laughed and cooed like an awestruck child.

My captors will return soon. They will beat me, spit on me, and call me names. They will leave their bitter pill, but I won't take it.

No. I will be thinking of the shadows of snowflakes dancing in the electric light, and I will smile to myself, and maybe cry. I hope that somewhere, my children are seeing something that makes them smile too. I hope they do not cry too much for their father. I wish I could be there. I am not absent through any fault of my own. I hope they come to understand one day, but even if they don't I will always love them.

Somewhere, someone is worried about me. I love them, and I want to see them again.

I need to get home, but as long as my heart is full of wonder, my mind can endure the wait.