The River Crossing Soldier

He stands at the high bank, cigarette in one hand and semi-automatic in the other.

And I sit below, my hired boat guide navigating the shallow and jutting rocks along the narrow river strip. “One step across”, they call this river spot. Behind me, it is only as wide as one tall person stretching. We are at the end of a split branch of China’s Great Wall, where its ancient stone blocks crumble into the water.

The rule is no pictures, so I sear his image into my brain. Delicate nose. Full lips. No lines. The lone North Korean soldier on the high bank waves when he sees me memorizing him. And my ever-patient Chinese boat guide stiffens.

We are the same age, the soldier and I. Time has not yet touched us. His wave is confident, even friendly. And he waves with his cigarette hand. I am so close I see the fumes. His relaxed fingers on the other hand cradle his weapon against his shoulder.

We will never talk. I will never learn why he is there, or why the soldier barracks behind him is pointed into his own country. I will never ask if, like many of us, he dreams of something different. If he followed the rules, and if those same rules betrayed him.

His worn wan smile gives me some idea. He is tired, too.

I wave back.

Photo by Sebastian Schuster on Unsplash

Author's note: This story is posted under "fiction" because I wanted the freedom to add to this postcard series—snapshots of human connection in unexpected moments and places—while editing details for people's privacy. This story itself is memoir true. Thank you so much for reading.