I remember the day I found out the gods hated us. I wish I could tell you about the calm blue color of the sky, the songs of the birds and the laughter of playing children. I wish I could show you how the sun’s rays kissed my skin. But I can’t do that.

I wish I could tell you how dark the day was. Black clouds looming over us, rain falling like thousands of needles, and wind blasting through the windows. But I can’t do that either.

It wasn’t a day I would remember at any other time. The sky was ugly grey as if someone had smudged it with a brush. The insects were too lazy to bother us, and the wind didn’t bless us with its presence. Not cold enough to put on a blanket, not warm enough to wear a dress. Time had stopped, and everything was still. Everything but a long column of men marching out of town. The only reason I remember the wretched day.

All dressed in worn armor, moving slowly, dragging even. One foot in front of the other. Not rushing. Contrary to all the tales and legends, I felt no sense of glory and pride watching the long line of metal. I couldn’t feel anything but a clump of sorrow in my throat that I could neither swallow nor spit out.

Their armor didn’t shine under the sun, no one sang songs of bravery, and little girls didn’t throw rose petals over them as they passed. Behind them, they left only a cloud of dust, trampled grass, and a town of watery eyes.

This was the day my husband went to war.