Dover Beach

Where ignorant armies clash by night.




An unfamiliar trail of wetness ran down Mrs. Phelps' cheeks and fell to the paved ground beneath her. She walked down the path, her nose scrunched, eyebrows furrowed, and hair flying as a car whipped down the street.  "No tears..." Mrs. Phelps hiccupped, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. Why was she crying? What was wrong with her?


Pete had said it would be a quick war. He would be home by next week. But what would happen if a week had passed, without a word from her husband? Pete said no tears and that she should move on and get married again quickly. Shouldn't it be difficult to "just move on"? If you truly loved someone, shouldn't it be devastating to say goodbye? Mrs. Phelps had so easily said goodbye in her last two marriages and felt she could easily say goodbye in this one too. Had she ever felt love in any of her marriages? She already knew the answer. No. "No tears," she whispered, stopping in her tracks, "No love."


Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light