She sat alone early Sunday morning, her head leaning against the cool glass, gazing out at the world she once knew. Everything she once held close to her nothing more then distant memories and shattered dreams. Outside the window she saw the paperboy. She expected to see him throwing papers into the yards of her neighbors’, but this morning he came running up and down the street, shouting
“It’s over; it’s over, the wars finally over!” He ran up to houses, banging on doors and pounding on windows, all the while screaming “the war is over, it’s finally over.” Families poured out of there homes, all of them dancing, crying, jumping, laughing, all of them were overjoyed hearing the amazing news. But the woman was still, she did nothing, she felt nothing. She watched the boy running from house to house to house banging on the windows and doors like a ninny, shouting the good news. She watched him run into her front gate, she watched him scurry up the stairs like a rat, and she watch him banging his fists on her door. For the first time all morning, the women stood. She walked slowly over to the door where the boy was still pounding away. She opened it. The boy breathless, wheezed
“It’s…over…the war… is over” he braced himself on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
“No” the women said. The boy looked up at the women,
“What” he questioned; he searched the women face for any signs of joy, but her face was blank, and there were no emotions in her words.
“No” she repeated. Feeling overly confident he shouted “but ma’me didn’t you hear me? We won, we won the war.” Her eyes grew large, and he could tell that he angered her.
“The war’s not over, boy. The war will never be over. Do you hear me? Never!” she slammed the door in the boys face. A little distort the boy shook it off and made his way down the dirt covered stairs, with chips of white paint in his boots. He walked out the gate, closing it behind him. He looked back at the house; he let out a small sigh and continued on his way.
The women walked to the fireplace and lit it. She starred at the picture above the mantel. It was a black and white photo of her husband, dressed in his army uniform, smiling. Standing next to him was a young women also smiling, with her arms wrapping her obvious pregnant stomach. The women picked up the photo and walked to her husband’s favorite dark teal chair. She sat down; she outlined her husband’s face with long, bony index finger. She spoke
“Well John, did you hear? The war is over” she weakly smiled “I bet you’re happy to hear that.” She stood from the chair with the picture frame pressing against her chest; she walked to the mirror next to the mantel. She looked at herself, and then lowered her dark, tired eyes to the young pregnant women in the picture. She looked up to the mirror, hardly recognizing the women starring back at her. The women in the mirror had eyes that were dark and blank; her hair was turning a slivery gray, and her face had lines and wrinkles from signs of worry and pain. The woman was only twenty-one, but she looked and felt like an old women.
The day fell short as the sun made its way sleepily down for the night. So the women decided to retire early, in hopes that tomorrow will be a less painful day. In her bed, she slept uncomfortable, for the pillow in which her husband had once slept, was no longer warm from his head, or smelt of his father’s pipe. And the dream she had was the same dream she dreamt since the night she found out that her husband would not be coming home.
In a field of wildflowers the women lay on the ground gazing up at the clouds passing her by
“Anna!” a voice cries out, she looks away from the sky and to the voice.
“John!” she screams as she runs up to the man and hugs him tightly, crying on his khaki green uniform.
“Its okay, I’m hear now, you don’t have to cry any more” he said rubbing her back. She looks up at him, his dark blue eyes staring back at her. He whipped her tears away from her eyes and she laughed
“You haven’t changed a bit, John” she commented “neither have you, my sweet” he agreed. She looked into the face of her husband, she was together again with her nineteen year old husband, and she his seventeen year old bride.
“Where’s the baby?” her husband asked excitably, the smile on the women’s face had disappeared “what?” he asked
“He died, John. Our son died” her voice breaking, “what” he said “my son?” he whispered, he turned away from the women.
“John wait” she called out but he quickly ran out of her sight, the sky turned blood red and the stench of gun power and human bodies filled the air. She was on a battlefield, what was green grass was now drenched with the blood of the wounded and dead. She cried out
“John! John!” She looked for him, but she could not see. Then something grabbed hold of her, she looked down and saw her husband, bleeding from a gun shot wound to the chest. She fell to his side, she screamed
“John, you can’t leave me now. Oh God John, don’t leave me, don’t leave me!” but he did leave her, died right in her arms. She closed her eyes and fond herself holding on to the bed post at the end of the bed. It was all just a dream. She released her grip on the post, sliding down to the floor; she held her legs close to her, laid her head in her knees. And for the first time in months she wept. She cried for the loss of her beloved husband, she cried for the loss of her son, whom was to be name Jonathan, after his father. In truth the war had not ended, for when her husbands body was buried the war he left behind, remained her only memory, forever locked in her mind.
