She was waiting by the fireside, gazing into the dancing flames. She was wrapped in a quilt, and nestled deep into the old chair. It had been 40 years now, since she had last seen him. It had been a tearful goodbye when he had left. He had been off to the almighty war, to fight for the good of the country. She hadn’t seen it that way. What good was it to go off and fight in some silly war over politics and petty differences? The loss of life was insane and pointless.
She didn’t know why she still waited. She knew it was not plausible that she would ever see him again. Her family had tried to reconcile her from her grief, but she would not be comforted. She had refused their help and had continued to sit wrapped in her quilt, night by night at the fireside, waiting for him to come home. The tears in her eyes glittered and reflected the flames. She looked at her hands, pale in the dim light. Her frail fingers clutched an old letter. She looked down at it, it was addressed to her.
“My love,” it began. “I can’t express to you how much I miss you with the mere words of this letter. The food and living conditions here are abominable. How I long to be back home in your loving arms. And I shall be soon enough. I am being discharged from this place tomorrow to return home. Do not fret, the thought of you worrying saddens me. My love and prayers go with this letter to you. Until I see you again, Jonathan.”
She was crying now, clutching the letter protectively to her chest. She had received his letter only a day before the one from the government had arrived, stating that he had been killed in battle. Ironically enough, it was the same afternoon that he was supposed to have arrived home. His letter was the last thing she had of his, and she cherished it dearly. Yes, she knew in her mind he was never coming home, but she also knew in her heart that he already was.
finis
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