As I sit and stare on my supposed deathbed,
unable to move or feel,
the world hums somewhere far from me-
boots, smoke,
the iron taste of fear.
I finally rest my eyes.
But when I open them
I’m sitting in an open grass field,
free as ever.
The war has folded itself away
like a map no one needs anymore.
The sky is wide and clean.
No sirens split it.
No shadows crawl across it.
Only wind moving through the green,
soft as your fingers through my hair.
I think of you.
Of the kitchen light at dusk,
how it turned your laugh to gold.
Of the way your hands fit in mine
like they were written there first.
Out here, the earth is warm.
I press my palm to it
and pretend it is your heartbeat.
I whisper your name
and the grass answers back in waves.
If this is the end,
let it be this-
your face rising over the horizon
like a sunrise I have waited through
too many cold nights to see.
If I must leave the noise and fire behind,
let me walk this field toward you,
no rifle on my shoulder,
no weight in my chest-
only the memory of home
and the hope
that somewhere beyond the smoke,
you are still waiting
in a doorway full of light.