It was the way his amber eyes glistened with tears when he said, “There’s no one to remember me… if something happens,” that really affected me. 

I’d met him mere hours ago, but pressed myself into him. “Then make me remember you.” 

He was ferocious that first time. In and out. Done. He’d rushed, maybe panicking, already feeling the claws of war tugging. Not knowing when he’d feel the touch of a woman again. 

But that second time, he took his time. He stroked my hair. Held the strands between his fingers as if memorizing their color and texture. Then he kissed me. Soft touches of lips with our eyes opening and holding in between kisses before we deepened it with opening mouths. His hands held my face. Mine held his. It was the best way for two strangers to form a meaningful connection. He was making a memory of something warm and soft to hold onto in the cold, heartless trenches. 

“I haven’t ever brought a man I just met home before.” 

“What made you do it this time?”

“Something in your eyes. I felt like you needed me. Not just tonight but maybe sometime when you’re out there fightin’, you’ll think of me, and it will help you in some way.” 

He kissed my forehead and nestled me in tighter against him. We lay there listening to the sound of our breathing. Pretty soon, we fell into the same rhythm. It was nice. We felt connected. 

When I woke, the bed was empty. A note on my nightstand read:

Thank you, 

Someone to remember

*

Had he received my letter before the bomb hit?

I didn’t know, but I prayed the soldier knew two would remember him now. 

I looked into the amber eyes that matched his. Held the boy who bore his name a little tighter, and knew that soldier would never be forgotten.