Wherever I go, the war travels with me in me. It rings in my ears with a loud bell that is louder than the murmur of the river, the morning birdsong, or even the sound of a motorboat. Or the barking of a large white dog.
Living on an island that is washed by a river, every day I receive news of friends who died at the battle front. I mourn them quietly, in my room, into my pillow. I don't want anyone to see me. So as not to bring grief to people. Every day I light a candle by the river so that the soul of another fallen soldier can wade across the river that leads to the afterlife.
Wherever I go, I look for a door that I can enter and leave the war behind. To go to a world without war. To go to the dimension where the war has been avoided, leading to those other dimensions. I am walking along the alley of sycamore trees and I see such doors on the trees. Doors formed by tree skin. Magical doors. But these doors are closed. The sycamore trees are silent.
And I remember.