Ashes on the Burnt Bridge and Two Pieces of Metal

The wind on the Burnt Bridge is always relentless.
Cold air from the north swept down, scattering the ashes at the bottom of the ravine.

I stared at the frayed cuff of Dali’s coat, the white stuffing peeking out like an old arrow wound. He held out two metallic objects. One was a warped brass ring. The other, a canteen with an engraved name.
With these, my bag grows heavier once more.

Back at the station, under the lamp, I examine the ring. Its surface bears fine scratches, as if someone tried to file away a military censorship stamp. I turn the worn pages of the register, tracing the names of those who did not return on that night of torrential rain.

Noya.
My finger passes over the name.

I still cannot write anything to my mother in her letters. Before the snow closes the pass, I must reach the owners of this ring and canteen. Breathing in the faint scent of the heavy uniform resting at the very bottom of my bag, I read out the names again tonight.

Forty-two who did not return.
Until the day I can finally lay down every last burden.

——Indeed, I have delivered them.