* This story is fiction. Many of the names and some elements of the story are similar to names and elements from my own family, but the plot is entirely fictional.

               Jennifer sighed as she pulled into the gravel driveway. The little farmhouse had changed so much in a week. Just a week ago, this house was a home, full of childhood memories; now, it made her feel uneasy.

            She was a little upset that no one else would help work. Someone had to do the tedious job of sorting through so many decades worth of stuff, deciding what to keep, what to give to charity, and what to just throw away. Her brother and sister were no help. They were around for the funeral, the reading of the will, and no more. Jessica and her family lived on the other side of the country, and Jordan was still in college. It was just as well. Jennifer had spent far more time here than they ever had.

            Heaving another heavy sigh, she turned the rusted key and pushed open the heavy wooden door. She was greeted with a waft of warm air and a familiar, somewhat musty smell, a mixture of dust, lavender perfume, and coffee. Everything was exactly as it had been for the past thirty years, as far as she could remember. Old, uncomfortable furniture upholstered in scratchy, faded brown and orange floral patterns stood on the hideously outdated yellow shag carpet. Funny, when Grandma and Grandpa lived here, it seemed to have fit; in fact, she had never even really noticed it. But now that the house was merely real estate, the carpet had to go. Jennifer opened a couple of windows to let out some of the summer heat.

            A faded old portrait of her grandparents sat on the mantle. Her grandmother had a very stately look, her hair drawn into a tight bun and her lips drawn into an equally tight pucker. Such a strange custom, Jennifer had always thought, to not smile for a portrait. Grandpa looked somewhat comical next to her, trying not to smile, but unable to hide it completely. While his mouth revealed nothing, his gray eyes held a smirk that was always there. Grandpa’s eyes did not quite line up, even with his glasses. He had injured his left eye in an accident when he was a schoolboy. Usually unmatched eyes bothered Jennifer, but her grandpa’s never had; they carried too much kindness.

            Where to start? Jennifer walked through the rooms, and memories of her childhood flooded her. As a little girl, she loved nothing better than to come out to the farm and visit her grandparents. Grandma was a wonderful cook, and Grandpa made the best malted milkshakes in the world. And at night, far away from the city lights, Grandpa would turn off the big floodlight and they would take a blanket out to the lawn and stare for hours at the stars. The farm had millions upon millions of stars, whereas her home in the city only had a handful on even the clearest nights.

            Even better was when she would wake up just before sunrise to her grandmother’s cooking. Out here in the country the sky would be clear, still studded with a few stars, and blue, a brilliant, piercing blue that glowed with so much energy that Jennifer could never get enough; she was always trying to figure out how to take that incredible deep blue home with her. Grandma used to tell the young girl that this bright blue predawn sky was the only thing in the universe that was the same color as her eyes. Jennifer chuckled. Even now, Jennifer’s own husband Bill tries to find words to describe his wife’s extraordinary eyes, and he always makes her laugh, as he sounds like a college boy trying out pick-up lines in a bar.

            In the master bedroom, Jennifer sunk onto the creaky old spring-mattress bed and looked around, wondering what to start with. She didn’t want any of this stuff, really, but she couldn’t bear the though of just throwing it away. On the bedside table sat an old jewelry box that played music when it was opened. Jennifer cranked it and smiled as it played “Edelweiss.” She glanced inside at the tarnished jewelry, and sat the box down as the song tinkered more and more slowly and finally stopped mid-phrase.

            The closet door was open. Among the stacks of hatboxes, full of joyous frivolities that used to provide Jennifer and her sister with hours of dress-up fun, an unfamiliar box caught her eye. She hopped up from the bed, which uttered a creak of protest, and pulled down the box, almost losing her balance at the unexpected weight of it. After brushing off a thick layer of dust and briefly examining the dark brown embossed paper cover, she opened it to find stacks of old photographs, many of which she recognized. She used to go through these old photographs with her grandpa before he died. She treasured a few in particular that featured her grandparents playing together as children.

            Grandpa loved to tell stories about how he had always been in love with the “prettiest girl in town, your grandmother.” They had grown up on the same block in a small East Texas town. Grandpa’s eyes would sparkle as he would relate how he had been so scared to ask her to the big school dance and how excited he had been when she had agreed. He didn’t have much money in his family, but he had spent several weeks working odd jobs to buy himself a decent suit and pair of shoes, and had even snuck into old Mrs. Newman’s rose garden and gotten scratched up, snatching flowers to make his own corsage and a bouquet for his beloved date. Somewhere in this box was probably the picture of the young couple on her front porch, she holding the bouquet loosely, and he standing in his new suit with his chest puffed, beaming and gazing at her.

            Jennifer shuffled quickly through some other old photographs of people she didn’t know, and her eyes fell upon a well-worn black leather-bound book. Hoping it was Grandpa’s bible, she carefully slid it out from under the photographs. It was not a bible, however. The cover was blank, and wrapped all the way around the pages, where it was closed with a tiny lock. Jennifer gently squeezed the soft leather cover until the pages gapped somewhere in the middle and she peered down inside of it. She could barely make out her grandma’s neat handwriting. Apparently, Grandma kept a diary.

            As she reached to put the locked book back into the box, two envelopes with tattered corners slid out from between the pages. They were addressed to Norma Jean Brockman, no return address. Jennifer’s heart skipped at seeing her grandma’s maiden name – love letters from Grandpa, the romantic old rascal! She slid the folded paper out and opened it. The paper was worn through at the folds. Holding it gingerly, she read:
 

             Jennifer stopped. Grandpa was never in the war. Her eyes darted to the bottom of the page. “all my love, George.” George? Grandpa’s name was Alfred. Who is George? She stood up out of her squatting position and steadied herself on the bedpost as the blood rushed into her head. Grabbing the two letters, she went into the living room and sat down in one of the scratchy armchairs. George? 

***

            Bill glanced nervously at his wife as he sat down for dinner. He could tell something was wrong. He pretended not to notice that she had dropped his pork chop on the floor, and when she wasn’t looking he picked off a piece of fuzz.

            “Where’s Billy?” he asked, glancing at the empty chair

            “He stayed the night with Ron Bingham again.”

            He frowned. The boy had stayed overnight at Ron’s twice this week already, and last night Bill and Jennifer had discussed that they should not allow him to stay again for a while, for Ron’s parents’ sake. Noting his wife’s distant and somewhat troubled expression, he decided not to mention it.

            “What’s wrong?”

            Jennifer put down her fork and blinked at him. She had decided not to mention her find to anyone just yet, as she didn’t know what to make of it and didn’t really feel like discussing it. Turning her attention to Bill, she forced a weak smile and softly replied, “Nothing. How was your day?”

            "Ugh. We had another endless meeting for most of the morning… accomplished nothing. I could have gotten caught up on all kinds of work but I had to sit there and listen to Fred rattle off numbers that don’t mean anything…” Bill noticed the distant look had returned to his wife’s face. She had obviously tuned him out. “…and then Fred turned into a toaster and started levitating using the power of the Force, but seeing as how you’re not really listening…”

            “Hon, I need to run back to the farmhouse,” Jennifer said suddenly, as she jumped up from the table. “I left the back door unlocked.”

            “What? We just sat down to dinner. Nobody ever goes that far out of town, it’ll be fine. Sit down.” Jennifer grabbed her car keys. “Well at least let me come with you. It’ll be dark before you get out there, and I don’t want you out there alone at night.”

            “I’ll be fine. I have my cell. I just need to lock the door. Everyone knows she’s gone, Bill. It was in the obituaries. In case some kids come snooping around or something. I just don’t want to leave the place wide open for them.” And with that she hustled out the door. Bill sat staring at the door for a moment, wondering what had gotten into her. He shrugged and reached for his wife’s untouched, lint-free pork chop.

 ***

           Jennifer pulled back into the gravel driveway and cut her headlights. She fumbled with the key in the dark and patted around for the light switch inside the entranceway. At dinner she had suddenly remembered seeing a tiny key inside the jewelry box. She hoped that the key would fit the diary, and maybe answer some of her questions.

            Jennifer quickly found the key in the jewelry box, which startled her as it jangled a couple more notes, and pulled the little black diary out of the box. She tried the key. It didn’t quite fit. After briefly considering and quickly dismissing the idea of just cutting the cover off the beautiful old book, she gave the key a jiggle and it slid in. Success! She sat down and leaned against the wall, and opened the first page. 

Thursday, November 20^th 1941
Well I am glad for a new diary, this one with a lock. Samuel kept finding the old one, as he knows it bothers me so. I tossed it into the burning pit while no one was around. Once he learns to read he will be a real nuisance. A lovely Thanksgiving all around. We had  a nice visit with Aunt Emma and Uncle Joe and the twins. Alfred’s mother sent him over with a basket of fruit. He is acting stranger all the time, stuttering like a fool. I don’t know what has gotten into him. The boy is always finding some reason to come over here now. I didn’t mind it before when we would all play together but he still acts like such a child, and rather than talking about anything new, he recounts over and over various things that have happened in years past. He’s an awfully nice boy but I sometimes wish he would just leave me alone. Even his kindness is becoming unbearable...

           Jennifer shut the diary. This wasn’t exactly what she had expected to read of her grandparents’ budding relationship. Putting the diary and key into her purse, she got up to check the back door. Still locked. She left the house and as she drove home, her mind reeled.

            After her own parents had divorced, Jennifer had almost lost faith in the idea of marriage and lasting love. Her personal video collection, full of perfect romantic couples from Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman to Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, betrayed her fascination with the Hollywood idea of love. She had also clung to the model of her mother’s parents, and had admired their marriage almost as much as she had admired her grandparents themselves. Jennifer especially admired the way her Grandpa had adored Grandma. In fact, when she met Bill, it was his clumsy romantic side that had attracted her.

            Arriving home, Jennifer found Bill snoring in his recliner, the television cycling through the channels as his thumb rested on the remote control. Jennifer headed for the bedroom and unlocked the diary once more. 

*** 

Saturday, November 29^th 1941
I hate my mother. I can’t believe she is making me go to the winter dance with Alfred next weekend. He’s so peculiar, and that eye of his disturbs me. She wouldn’t even let me wait around to see if anyone else would ask me. The fellow that just moved here, I believe his name is George, is so handsome! I would go with him in a heartbeat. He smiled at me today in history class. But now I’ll never know because I’m doomed to go with Alfred. I don’t see why I should have to suffer just because she’s a friend of his mother. I will go. But I will not smile and I will not enjoy it. 

Saturday, December 6^th 1941
What a wonderful night! The decorations were lovely. Patty was in charge of the decorations and she must have cut out five dozen snowflakes. Alfred had a new suit and new shoes. He looked so grown-up. He was too shy to dance when we first arrived, but George asked me to dance, and of course I accepted. What a dancer! He has the bluest eyes I have ever seen. Words cannot describe them! And beautiful wavy brown hair. We danced for three songs, and then he mentioned that I should probably dance with Alfred since he was my date. Poor Alfred! He was so nervous, he stepped on my feet three times. After this I danced with George once more. He whispered to me to meet him around the back of the school in an hour. I told Alfred that I was feeling ill, and to please walk me home. He did. He was really very sweet, the poor boy. After Alfred left I walked back to the school and met George. It was a chill night, but he offered me his overcoat and wore just his jacket. We talked for hours about all sorts of things. We talked of what we want to do after high school. George wants to be an actor in New York. He is so handsome, I think he should go to Hollywood, but he says he would rather act on stage. We talked about the war in Europe. We talked about our families. George’s father works in the oil industry and that is why they moved here. His family has a lot of money. I finally had to tear myself away from him to come home, and sneak in the back door. I’m too excited to sleep so I decided to write in my diary. I forgot to give him back his overcoat. I hid it under my bed.

 Tuesday, December 9^th 1941
I can’t believe it’s only been 4 days, well, 3 really, since I was writing about that dance. Everything has changed so much! The President says we are at war now. I still can hardly believe it. It all seems like a bad dream. I keep hoping I’ll wake up and Pearl Harbor will still just be someplace I’ve never heard of. This is so crazy. Everything that seemed so important before now seems so silly. I don’t know if I am scared or sad or angry or if I’ve gone mad. I’ve been busily idle, feeling all stirred up to jump into action of some sort, but I’m not sure what sort of action is in order. Alfred came by. We talked for a long time. He tried to enlist but they wouldn’t let him because of his eye. He’s so distraught. I feel terrible for putting him off at the dance, but now I doubt he even remembers it. We have talked a lot about this crazy war and it was good to have a shoulder to cry on. He’s a good friend. I want so badly to see George again. We haven’t had school this week but will start back tomorrow. I still can’t put down in words what I am feeling right now, because I do not know what I am feeling.

 Wednesday, December 10^th 1941
We went back to school today but we didn’t do any regular school work. We had a school-wide assembly and Principal Jones talked to us about the war, and Mrs. Harris talked to us as well, mostly about how we must be on our toes and stick together and all step up to help our country any way we can during this state of emergency. Really it was unnecessary as I’m sure we all felt that way already. But then we had the opportunity to just talk to one another and cry on each other’s shoulders if we needed to (I did) and I think that was helpful. Much better than staying at home anyway. Most of the boys want to head off to the war as soon as they graduate. Many are even enlisting right away. I talked with George for a while, and we talked again after school. He says he’s eager to go and wants to drop out and leave right away but his parents insist that he waits until he’s called up. I cried again on his shoulder. I’ve been crying so much these past few days that it hurts to cry anymore. But in spite of it all it did feel nice to have a solid shoulder to cry on. And then he kissed me. What a kiss! He shall do quite well as an actor when this war is over – it was the most extraordinary, Hollywood kiss! It felt so out of place, in the midst of talk of war, but at the same time it was so comforting. So now today I have this strange exuberance added to the flurry of emotions I already had, and I guess one heart cannot contain so many emotions, for now I feel that I am outside of myself just observing my own reactions as it all takes place. I’m so mixed up!

 ***

            Jennifer kept reading. She read about various boys from school heading off to the war in the Pacific. She read about Grandma’s thoughts on the happenings in Europe (mostly secondhand opinions.) She also read with great interest as Grandma and George apparently became quite serious. Grandma’s father did not like George because, as he put it, he was “a dreamer.” His daughter was too good for some silly actor, and he went as far as forbidding her to see him. She continued to see him secretly, however.

            Jennifer stopped. She heard Bill stirring in the living room. It was past midnight. She slipped the diary under a stack of books on her bedside table and picked up a magazine as Bill shuffled into the room. He kissed her, smiled groggily, and flopped into bed as soon as he could get his shoes off. 

***

            In May, George was called up by the US Navy. He was to board a train on a Tuesday morning. George stayed up late the night before with his parents and little sister Catherine, and sometime after midnight when they all finally went to sleep, he snuck out of his house and walked along the dark, quiet streets of the town. When he reached Norma Jean’s house, he tapped on her window. He had done this before; it no longer startled the girl. She peeked out the curtain and smiled through her tears. A few minutes later she joined him quietly on the lawn and they stole off together, walking through the dark, quiet town, eventually finding and old building that was once used as a dance hall but hadn’t been in use for some time.

            They talked and talked, about the future, about the two of them. George made it clear that he intended to marry Norma Jean as soon as he returned from the war. He was determined to do it right and ask for permission, and he felt certain that after serving his country, Norma Jean’s father wouldn’t refuse him her hand. And with these plans set, George finally divulged to Norma Jean what he had kept secret from everyone. He was scared. He was terrified of having to go to sea, of war, of killing, and of having to leave home. And now it was Norma Jean’s turn to comfort George as he cried on her shoulder. 

***

 Tuesday, May19th 1942
So he’s gone. I’ll go into the details later. I am simply too exhausted right now. I can still feel the warmth of his last embrace, and I can still feel his last gaze burning through me. Those eyes, I know now where I have seen that color. It is the color of the sky that was above us this morning, just before the sun came up. And then I had to come inside and leave him; and my soldier, my sailor, had to return to his home and catch a train. Oh, God, please keep him safe!

 *** 

            As the train gave a wail and began to pull away from the station, George was glad he could not see the platform with his family on it. They would be leaving town soon, also. The war had caused a boom in the oil business, and George’s father had been promoted. This blasted war, George though, if only I didn’t have to go. He secretly envied his classmate Alfred, who could not join up because of his eye. As the train rolled through the tall pine trees, George had an idea and began to work on it. He had some money with him. If he could just catch the wrong train at his next stop, he could escape this future that terrified him as it grew nearer, at least for a while.

            If he was going to last for any length of time without looking suspicious, he knew he needed to have a ready answer for why he was not going off to fight. No one questioned Alfred. In fact, no one even mentioned enlisting to Alfred, because they knew how much it pained him that he could not go and contribute. George got up to walk around a bit. His leg had fallen asleep and he had a bit of a limp. A limp!

            George limped his way through the cars, practicing. He noticed a lad his own age, a tall, skinny redheaded boy with freckles all over his face. George sat down next to him.

            “Hello. Where’re you headed?” asked the boy, in a surprisingly deep and confident voice.

            “I’m headed up north. They won’t let me enlist,” George pointed to his left leg, “so I’m going to see if they will at least let me help build some planes. You?”

            “US Navy. My number got called, so I’m reportin’ in. I can’t wait to get over there, kill me some Japs, and get this thing ended so me an’ my brother can come back home and help my momma. He’s been gone since January; he’s in the Philippines now.” He stuck out a bony freckled hand. “I’m Stan.”

            “Well it’s good to meet you, Stan. Give ‘em hell over there for me. I’m… Rick.”

            Stan was a talker. He and George spent the next hour or so chatting.

            “Will you do me a favor?” asked George. “You see, I left this girl back home, a real beauty. We have this running joke, see, that I’m gonna go off to war, even though we both know it’s not true. I hated to leave her behind. So if, I write her a couple of letters, will you keep them and mail them to her for me? One just before you ship out, and another from overseas. Can you just imagine the look on her face when the postman brings her a letter from Hawaii, or the Philippines?”

            Stan grinned. “I love a good joke. Count me in, soldier!” And with a wink he saluted.

*** 

            Jennifer moaned. All this business of sorting out her grandparents’ stuff had worn her out, and she had caught a summer cold. The dust probably didn’t help. The diary was a good distraction from her misery, though. She found it fascinating. As Bill insisted that she let him do all the housework while she was sick, she had nothing to do during the day while he was at work and Billy was off at summer camp. The old diary pulled her through her aching boredom. After making herself a cup of chamomile tea, Jennifer grabbed a box of tissues and her flannel throw blanket and settled into her favorite armchair. She thumbed through the diary to find her place. 

Saturday, June 20^th 1942
It’s been a month now since George left. I wish he would write! I’m sure he’s not able to. I’m sure they keep him busy all the time with his training and all. I cannot wait until he returns! George’s family will be moving out of town tomorrow. I don’t really know them, my future in-laws, as I’ve only met them on a couple of occasions. They don’t know George plans to marry me. We thought it best if they didn’t just yet, until he can prove himself to my father. I have been starting to feel sick these last couple of days. I hope that passes. Alfred has been over often. I finally had to explain to him that I am waiting for George to return so that he wouldn’t get any ideas. 

Monday, June22nd 1942
Well, I got a letter from George today. He’s being sent to the Philippines. This war looks like it could take a while. I can wait, though. I hope he writes more often. I wish I could write to him. He did not provide an address. I miss him so much. 

            Jennifer leafed through the book and found the letter she has started to read earlier. 
 

Dearest Norma Jean,
I am sorry I have not written earlier. They are sending my unit on the next carrier. Right into the thick of it, in the Philippines. I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to write again, and I really do not have much longer even now. I love you and I think of you all the time. I will do my part to win this war for you, my love, and for us in the future, so that we may raise our family in a better world. 

All my love,
George
 

            Folding the brittle paper carefully back, she placed it back inside the back cover, and then turned back to the diary where she had left off. 

Wednesday, June 24^th 1942
I’m pregnant. I’m certain of it. That night in the old dance hall before he left, it was my first time…

             Jennifer slammed the book shut, blushing. Grandma? She shuddered at the image in her mind’s eye. That’s what I get for reading her personal diary, she thought. It slowly dawned on Jennifer that her grandma might be talking about being pregnant with her mother. If so…her own Grandpa was not her grandfather! Why, why did she have to find the key to this diary? She decided to stop reading it.

            It was an addiction, though. After about an hour of watching bad daytime television, Jennifer convinced herself that it wasn’t hurting her grandmother any, as she was gone. Vowing to skip over anything racy, she took up the diary once more and picked up at the next entry.

 Saturday, June 27^th 1942
I was about to bust… I am so scared of what my father’s reaction will be. But I couldn’t go through this alone anymore. And Alfred was there for me. So, I confided in him. I didn’t tell him the details, but I told him that it was George, and I told him about how I can’t tell my parents just yet, although I can’t hide it forever. I just don’t know how to tell them. I will be such a disgrace to them. It’s a small town. Everyone will know. At least Alfred was understanding. I’m no disgrace to him. I just hope George comes home soon, I really need him!

***

            George had a fine time inventing his new life as Rick. He had worked out his limp to perfection and no longer caught himself walking without it. Just as he had hoped, people recognized his limp and out of sympathy, didn’t even bring up the fact that a young man like himself was still at home.

            Rick had found his way to New York City, where he had no trouble creating a new life for himself. How nice it was to escape small town life, where everyone knows who you are and keeps a judgmental eye on you! Rick had found an easy job on an assembly line where he was allowed to sit down all day to get off his bad leg. In the evenings he played with a small acting troupe that gave performances to soldiers on leave or awaiting deployment in the city. These were fun little sketches that spoofed Hitler and Mussolini as well as overbearing officers, and always portrayed the enlisted men as heroes. He was living his dream, acting in New York, and managed to drive away his guilty conscience by the fact that he was still contributing to the war effort, by encouraging the troops as well as producing war materials at his day job.

            His only regret was that he had to leave Norma Jean when he ran away. He convinced himself that she belonged not to him but to George. Rick had never met the Texas girl, and never would. He would meet plenty of other girls, though. George may have been considering marriage, but Rick was playful and very popular with the ladies. It seemed that a man in a costume of a uniform was almost as good as a man in uniform to many of them. The problem of Norma Jean would take care of itself as long as Stan, the freckle-faced young man on the train, had kept his word.

*** 

Monday, July 13^th 1942
Oh God, I still can’t believe he’s dead. I received the letter on Friday. Mom and Dad know about the baby. I told them everything, about George and I planning to marry when he returned, about the letter I’d received, everything. I don’t have the strength to write anymore. I don’t know what I’m thinking right now anyway. It goes back and forth from an unbearable flood of emotion, to complete numbness. Right now is a numb moment, and I don’t want to write anymore because I need a break from the pain. 

            Jennifer sniffled. She had figured that this was the case, that George had died in the war. After all, she had spent her summers at her grandma and grandpa’s house, not at George’s. She pulled out the other envelope from inside the back cover, the one she had not been open easily without tearing the paper. Using a letter opener Jennifer put a new tear in the envelope and pulled out the brittle, tear-stained letter. 
 

Dear Norma Jean,
I am so sorry to inform you that George was killed in a surprise kamikaze attack. Few of us survived. He was a good buddy of mine and spoke of you often. He had mentioned that if anything happened to you he didn’t know how you would find out, since his family has moved and would not know to inform you. I found your address and felt it my duty to let you know. He was such a brave man and a true friend, and he loved you very much. 

Regretfully,
Stan McKinney 
 

           Jennifer was stunned. So much history, her family’s history, her own history, right here in this little book. She read on.

 Wednesday, July 22^nd 1942
Plans have been made. I will marry Alfred. He had a talk with Father and offered to marry me so that I would not raise the child alone. My father seems satisfied with this arrangement. Alfred is a good man and has always cared for me. I have no doubt that I will be well cared for. He will be a good father for George’s baby. No one will be the wiser. We will probably leave town soon after the wedding, which is probably for the better as people talk, and I don’t want people treating my child, George’s child, as a bastard. Alfred has some distant family with a cotton farm in West Texas. They need more men there to work, as they have lost many to the draft. We will start a new life. I had hoped for more, for so much more. Alfred is a good man, but I am not in love with him and I doubt I ever can be. I will never tell my child about George, though. I am certain of this. He will be raised as though he were Alfred’s legitimate son.

             Jennifer read about the simple wedding, the move to West Texas and how they settled down on the farm, which was still recovering from a long drought. She read about how her grandmother accepted her role as a farm wife. She read about the joy she found in the little girl, Linda, Jennifer’s mothers, when she was born, and how she was never able to bear Alfred any children. And she read about the depression that settled in when the baby girl was about a year old.

Tuesday, February 15^th 1944
Well happy St. Valentine’s Day. Alfred went overboard with the valentine’s gifts again yesterday. I wish he wouldn’t work so hard. The more he loves me the more I hate him because I can’t love him back. Every kiss makes me cringe. Every gaze makes me nauseous. I am so tired of staying home with the baby. I am so tired of pretending to love him. I just want to get away. Every little thing he does just grates on my nerves lately. Nothing particularly bad, just stupid little things like that laugh of his, and the way he always pops his knuckles, and when he talks baby talk to Linda, and that eye. He treats me wonderfully. Any woman should be happy to be his wife. I wish I knew how to just be content with what I have. 

            And after this, her diary entries became very dull, until she was merely recording facts about each day. Jennifer didn’t really care what the weather was like in West Texas in March, or what grandma had fixed dinner on Wednesday. She flipped on ahead to August of 1945, the end of the war, to see if that changed anything. 

Tuesday, August 14^th 1945
Another hot day. Thermometer read 98 degrees Fahrenheit this afternoon. I heard on the radio that the war is officially over now. We had vegetable soup for dinner. 

            Jennifer noticed the next page sticking up a little bit. There was something stuck inside the diary. It was an old magazine clipping. 

Wednesday, August 29^th 1945
I found this photograph in Time magazine. This man looks so much like George. That is exactly how he kissed me early in the morning the day he left. I still remember exactly what that felt like. Even the hair looks exactly like George’s. This is almost enough to make me believe he is still alive. Almost, but I know if George were alive he wouldn’t be in New York kissing nurses. 

            Jennifer unfolded the clipping, already knowing that it was the photograph she had seen so many times, on posters and greeting cards, and in history books, of the sailor in Times Square kissing the nurse. So that’s what her grandfather looked like.

***

            The remainder of the diary looked to be more of the same factual reports of weather and dinner menus. Bored, Jennifer flipped through a few more pages and saw that Grandma eventually stopped writing before she had filled up the rest of the pages. She locked the diary and dragged a stepstool over to her bedroom closet. On the top shelf, behind some blankets in clear plastic bags, was a cardboard box, half full of old high school yearbooks, where she annually hid her family’s Christmas gifts. Jennifer dropped the diary into the box, where it would hopefully remain. A couple of pages before the last page was one last entry, written years after the others. Jennifer never saw it. 

Saturday, September 30^th 1989
I found this old thing while clearing some things out of the closet. Alfred died last week. He was a good man. I miss him so much. I hope I wasn’t too hard on him, and I hope he knows that I really did love him. I’m not sure I ever told him. I don’t think I even knew. I have so many regrets. I wish I had not taken him for granted when we were younger. Over the years I finally realized this and finally started to let down my guard and really share my life with him, but not until I was already an old woman. Now that he is gone, I can’t bear life without him. Losing Alfred hurts far worse than George did. I’m so sorry, Sweetie.

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