On the forest avenue to Nikkō, surrounded by the cedars’ memories of fallen companions, fears of their own hearts’ mortality, I thought of you gazing from the woods at Gettysburg, reluctant to dare the unknown horrors of the gentle fields, their stone walls and ditches, as if you needed metaphors to describe your marriage. When last I heard from you, you were a year into a five-year plan to desert, unspoken of since announced. I wonder if you laid down your arms in exchange for safety, or if you’re stationed elsewhere now, still under his command, not knowing being all I’ll ever know.