To all of us soldiers who were sent up from the colonies for the war, it was that first winter’s snow that convinced us there was any worth in fighting a conflict that didn’t belong to us. That’s why I think he died well. You see, most men die terribly, they have horrible deaths, they are simply no good at dying–but this man, this man was blessed when it was time for his end. I couldn’t understand it then, amidst the snowstorm and the retreat, when we were ordered to leave him behind. I was a kid, and he was the only man in the battalion I didn’t have to speak English to. But when the years passed, and the war was over, I had seen enough deaths to tell he had died well. 

It was the first time we saw snow. You have to understand, our language had the words for it all, but for us things like dead trees only really existed in the science textbooks from fourth grade, or in the movies. Just like how you first seemed to me, with your pale skin, blond hair, and green eyes. So yes, now I think he died well. I imagine him in his last moments, shot and alone, very well knowing that he won’t go on, slowly getting covered in white. Falling on his failing body, a soft unknown something–something new,  something otherworldly–what every man yearns for. And for him, it never got normal, it never got usual, filthy, like what all these winters have done for me. So yes, there, in the red stained snow, laid the body of a convinced man–a man that was good at dying. 

Now, going back to your question. We are spending the break in this beautiful cabin. It’s snowing outside. There is enough wine and cigarettes to last us a lifetime. The fire won’t die down unless we want it to. Our friends are dancing in the living room. You are sitting in the arm of my chair, and in that dress, I know you are the most beautiful person in the world. So yes, baby, this is what life is supposed to be about. This and, when the time comes, begging the Gods we know how to die well, just like this man I’m trying to tell you about.