By Harry Peat
I take her frail hand, smile with all the strength of a wet biscuit, and try to speak. My voice will not come. The whole congregation, my family on the East pews, hers on the West, stare at us silently, reluctant to draw breath lest the sound give me the courage to turn tail and run. The cold green eyes of my would-be bride plead for an answer. My heart pleads for the opposite.
I think to myself, You’ll no longer be a soldier. You’ll be a lord. You can actually make a difference.
If you would only say two words.
Thought provoking.
Brought back memories.