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Marching On

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As I watched my husband, standing six feet small by the river bank, I knew it was a sorrow without a loss; the man I looked up to was still there physically, but it didn’t take a microscope to see the change that had occurred in him and between us, since I could tell the quirky husband I had married was long gone—replaced instead by a broken man—but it was the predictable result of war on a kind man, who saw things and did things he shouldn’t have in the corrupt atmosphere of combat—his guilt was tangible, for I could feel it in the aftertaste of each kiss we shared, and it became a burden between us, as I knew there was nothing I could do to ease his pain except stand with him by the riverbank, as he attempted to regrow.



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