Last Christmas in Paris

by Hazel Gaynor

They return to us as husbands, lovers, brothers, friends—but they also return to us as soldiers. War is part of who they are now. Part of who they will always be.

How unbearable to endure another goodbye. We seem to dance around each other like autumn leaves, forever twisting and twirling about until a gust of wind sends us skittering in different directions.

One must always have adventure in life, or the promise of it, at least.