Yesterday the man I’m going to marry took me to a jewelry store, not necessarily to buy the largest, most sparkling ring in the store, but to bury the Dead Soldier. I had found myself bundled up in my spring green jacket and being hugged warmly by my chemise scarf, while being encouraged by his hand grasp to skip easily to the jeweler’s store front because he was finally purchasing that life long piece desired by all single women all over the world.

He threw the ring up on the counter. “How much can we get for this ring?” JP asked.

The hard-assed Italian who stood behind his shiny lit glass display cases suddenly dropped his gold-filled mouth smile. “Oh. Lets see how much it weighs.”

We walk over to the scale he brings up onto the counter. “Was this yours?” he peers from over his gold brimmed glasses to ask me.

“No, I’ve never been married. It’s all his.” I looked over at JP. He gave me a wink and a smile, as he kept both hands in his pockets.

The limped dick white gold only brought us just over a hundred bucks, but it was easily exchanged along with the blurry memories of maybe not even wearing it for a night full of hope, promises and love. I was finally getting to this guy.

There was hardly a black procession leaving the store immediately proceeding the burial of the soldier. He had fought a long hard battle, one for which he strongly believed in. He loved her and worked for her everyday, but he couldn’t keep up with her projections of self-hatred and denial of the last healthy relationships that remained in her life, and so had lost many comrades while at war. The ending of his life was a black and blue rage, spotted with moments of quietness and solace. As the soldier’s light came to a close, as he knew it, it was a self-fulfilling prophecy for him to sacrifice his love to a dedication to a cause that was not worthy.