We used to come here every day- now I come alone. The drought dried up most of our little swimming hole. But the bridge is still there. I stand as tall as I can and look out across the dry grass of the fields.

Life was never easy on this farm: we rose with the sun and worked till we were raw and sunburnt. But you made it bearable. You made me so happy. I love you so much.

I still remember when you came to the farm. We were both so young and yet already so different. Three generations of my family were born and had died in the same estate where I resided, and you and your mother still had the dust from your home country clinging to your worn clothes. We couldn’t speak the same tongue, but we knew we would be friends.

Your first proper winter must’ve been strange. You had never known the earth to freeze. Our swimming hole became a block of ice and we’d snuck out to spy on any fish that may have been trapped inside. All we saw were our reflections. And then you took my hand. We never looked back.

My dad was practically shocked off his feet when I volunteered to help you in the orchard. I just looked for any excuse to be with you. To smell your sweat and soap and the lingering dirt from a country that I couldn’t name. My mom actually shrieked when she saw her prized orange roses were missing from the flowerbed. I just looked at you over my bouquet and pressed your lips to mine.

Ten years later and we are happily married; though I have no idea where you are. I sit on the rocky bridge over our swimming hole and close my eyes to see your face once more. You left with my brothers to join the war. Two of them came back in boxes and I feel evil to say I’m glad it wasn’t you.

I trace my fingers across our names engraved in the warm stone as tears trace their way down my cheeks. I write this letter to you hoping it finds you alive. I pray you still dream of me.

Promise that you will come home, back to the bridge? Promise that I won’t have to bury you next to this dried-up oasis?