Lost Love

The Vietnam War was a time of upheaval in the United States causing great disorder, confusion, both social, and political.

When the draft was started young men seeking to avoid military service went to Canada. They were treated as immigrants rather than criminals.

How Amber McDuffy wished that Barry Duncan, the love of her life, had been one of these young men. If he had, then her life would be vastly different now. She had tried to get him to flee but he wouldn't. He did his "patriotic duty" and served. And died.

Amber now lives in a fantasy world. Escapism. Plain and simple. She remembers the times that she and Barry had together. Happy, joyful times—moments strung together like beads on a silver thread, each one polished by memory until it glows.

The local park was their sanctuary. Every Sunday they’d meet beneath the old Oak tree near the entrance. He’d always be waiting, hands in his coat pockets, a crooked smile on his lips, eyes alight with something warm and knowing. She’d laugh as he pulled out a paper bag of breadcrumbs—for the pigeons, he’d say, and a few nuts, for the bold ones among the squirrels. They’d walk hand in hand along the winding gravel path, autumn leaves crunching underfoot, spring blossoms raining down upon them in May.

They’d sit on their bench—the one carved with initials they pretended weren’t there—and scatter food at their feet. A squirrel would descend, cautious and curious, its tiny paws twitching. He’d whisper, “His name is Barry,” and she’d roll her eyes, stifling laughter. Barry, indeed. The pigeons gathered like an eager parliament, bobbing their heads, plotting snack advances. She’d toss crumbs gently, watching them scatter and squabble.

“We’ll come here when we’re old,” he once said, his voice soft, dreamy. “We’ll sit on this bench, and we’ll still feed the same squirrels. Or maybe their grandchildren.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “And we’ll have grandkids of our own. We’ll bring them here. Teach them to say ‘Barry’ properly.”

They had been the perfect couple—not because they never argued, but because their laughter always found its way back. They spoke of a cottage by the sea, of weekend hikes, of a kitchen filled with the scent of cinnamon and toast. They planned their wonderful life together in quiet moments: over coffee in bed, beneath starlit skies, in the hush of early mornings when the world felt new.

She remembers the ring he gave her—simple and gold. She wore it every day, spinning it on her finger as if to keep time moving forward, toward their future.

But then came the letter. The silence that followed the storm.

The bench is still there. She visits it sometimes, though Sundays no longer feel like promises. She brings breadcrumbs. She still tosses them gently. A squirrel—brazen and quick—darts forward. She smiles.

“Hello, Barry,” she whispers.

And for a moment, the wind stills. The leaves hover mid-fall. The past rushes in like a tide, full of light and warmth and love that never truly leaves.