Where can I even begin, to do justice to the feelings that well in my heart on being on this hallowed ground? How can I even express what it means-- will I ever be heard, if I even essay to do so?
Though it was over a sequicentury ago, it remains as current as ever, and I fear that some have not learned.
But even they cannot know what it was, to stand here with carbine and sword in hand.
We were there, and Leigh had turned to look to me with quiet concern. This close, she towers over me, and I love it. It makes me feel safe.
And yet, what this time calls PTSD- which we called "nostalgia"- is a quiet, insidious monster.
"I'm here, wife mine. I'm here."
We're the same, and yet, so very different now, six years since a twist of fate threw us together.
Because my god, that field, empty though it is, is so *loud.*
"Sounds about right," Leigh concurred. "They're well cared for, but that notwithstanding, they built these to *last."*
"Chloë Parker Logan...Present."
And then she was there-- close again, tall and strong and steady and warm, beside me.
"Thank God for that," I sighed.
She swept me into her arms, and for a long time, we stood there, in those deathless fields: Buford's last trooper and the erstwhile 10th Mountain Division soldier, united despite time and distance.
"It's loud, out here," I remarked, gesturing over my shoulder as we left the monument behind.
Perhaps I am understood after all.