Dead soldiers don’t start families they should have; their lovers whom the spring infected out on rolling hills, in fields sewn with sweet, secret choices – the language of the body, the language of the heart – now invalid, must nurse painful memories trapped in light caught in celluloid, or actively forget what is not forgettable – the smell of a man, the feel of his hand across her cheek, his words like bricks one upon the other to make a picture of the two of them that never lived. Dead soldiers don’t start families but sometimes have like felled trees that leave saplings, beautiful, skinny little pigtailed things shown in photographs, babies in the arms of young, silent dark-veiled mothers who cannot speak to save themselves from the undertow that has them, littles ones in suits at funerals holding hands, blind, uncomprehending. Let’s not kill soldiers in the name of things. Let them have children to take to the river for a swim or to the lake or the sea’s very edge when the day’s heat has overwhelmed them. The world is too big and beautiful to pack away in boxes. Let these be men whose women know of love’s changing face not of its premature end.