Dedicated to Katherine, whose wonderful LoC made me sit down and wrangle this piece into place.

Yesterday, I acquired a new book, a rather fascinating collection of memoirs. Vin saw me making off with my prize and asked me that it was about. He looked almost embarrased to be asking, but his hunger to know was palpable.

Vin finds it difficult to read. He gets headaches, and the longer he struggles to make sense of the print, the worse it gets. That is one reason why he loves poetry so. Their brevity allows him to enjoy them with only minor consequences.

I was appalled by my thoughtlessness. It had simply never occurred to me that Vin would be interested in my predeliction for autobiographical tales, or any other volume of prose. I should have known better.

Without futher ado, I dragged my lover into bed and arranged him comfortably around me. Then I proceeded to read out loud for my Vin. We spent a wonderful afternoon curled up together, sharing the book. He said he loved the way my accent cradled the words. I cannot recall ever enjoying a book--or a Saturday afternoon--more.

That was yesterday. We didn't finish it, of course. After some chapters, my throat began to complain and we agreed to put off the rest until the next day.

Somehow we ended up in our bed, in exactly the same positions we took yesterday. I snuggled closer to Vin and pulled out the leather-bound volume. Now, where did we leave off? Ah, yes.

This is odd. The narrative breaks off into poetry...

The life that I have is all that I have and the life that I have
is yours

My voice is unsteady, my throat tight, and I have difficulty swallowing.

The love that I have
for the life that I have
is yours and yours and yours

Vin's eyes are suspicously bright. It hurts to breathe.

A sleep I shall have
a rest I shall have
Yet death will be but a pause

I taste salt on my lips.

For the peace of my years
in the long green grass
shall be yours and yours and yours

I put down the book with shaking hands and turn to Vin. I do not think we will be reading any more this day.

--end--

NOTES: I've been looking for a reason to use this poem in a story since Christmas 2000. Eventually I gave up forcing it, which is when Ezra presented this Snapshot to me. The poem was brought to my attention by a Sentinel listsib (thanks Bluewolf!), then I found it quoted in 'Between Silk and Cyanide' by Leo Marks. It was used by the Allied spy Violette Szabo to encrypt dispatches. I have not yet been able to find title or author, but if anyone knows please tell me!