The Everlasting

YOU TOLD ME I should wear my armor, before I rode through the gates of Cavallon, because “It’s how it looks in all the paintings.” You must have thought I was a fool.

Perhaps I was, because I did not run, or demand to know what waited for me beyond those gates, but only stood like a doll and let you dress me for battle.

You took your time with it, fastening and refastening each tie and buckle, adjusting what did not need to be adjusted.

There was such grief in your face when you looked at me, as if you were already picking flowers for my grave, that I felt a certain degree of insult.