Life Line

It was the year 1917 when everything changed. I met the love of my life, got married at 18 years of age, and I discovered that I was with child. Everything was changing for me, for the better. But it wasn’t just me that was changing, everything around me was also; America entered World War One, subsequently taking my husband way from me, to serve this country. It was a noble cause, but I still missed him terribly, I’d only had him for a few short months since our marriage. My young mind did not comprehend why he had to leave me; wasn’t there someone else who could serve in his place? But I couldn’t change the fact that he had to leave me, so I bid him goodbye with tears streamingdown my face and with his promise to write me every day.

He didn’t keep his promise. Weeks came and went without letters, my answer back was always prompt; it was in the mailbox the very next morning. I understood why he couldn’t write every day, there was a war to fight after all; but I died a little bit inside every day I ran to the mail box hoping for my husband’s untidy scrawl, only to find a bill or letter from my sister. I kept up appearances per usual, I sewed with the ladies, cleaned the house, attended church and such; but my heart wasn’t in it. My heart was thousands of miles away; fighting for its life, and the lives of others. My sister was worried about me; as always. She knew how much my missing husband was affecting me, hers was gone too. But I was alright as long as the letters kept coming. They were my life line; my connection to him. They were the soul reason that I got out bed each morning; in the hopes of finding a beat up letter in the mail box.

It was a sunny Monday morning, like every other. Mondays were my favorite day now, since no mail was delivered on Sunday it was delivered on Monday two fold. That meant double the chances of getting a letter. Therefore every Monday morning I sat outside on my covered porch in my grandmother’s old creaky rocker, waiting patiently for the mail man.

He came around the corner in his blue shirt and shorts, in was July after all, everyone was in shorts or indoors.He whistled as he walked, he always did. He waved at children as he strolled by, happily placing the mail in their respective boxes.

“Howdy there Miss Amilia! How are ya on his fine summer mornin’?” He was always a happy man, seeing the best in people, and expecting the same in return.

“I am doing good, thank you for asking Mr. Johnson.” I stated politely, I did not want to be bothered by mindless chatter; all I wanted was those letters.

“No problem miss, I got a letter here for that husband of yours, it was lost temporarily in the mail miss. That’s way its so bend up, my apoligies for the long wait.There ya go.” He handed me a crinkled letter, that read;

Mrs. Amelia Catherine Michelson

166 Brooks Street, Monroe

Virginia, 24574

I smile broke out across my face, taking the letter quickly from his hands, I politily stated, “Thank you Sir, I’m very glad that you got the letter too me.” He nodded his head at me and contiuned on his way, whistling a tune that I'd heard as a child. I walked back up the stone steps to my rocker, I always opened all the letters here. Rain or shine, this was where I was when a letter came. I gently tore open the letter. It wasn’t difficult; the seal was almost broken already fromits travels within the post office. I unfolded the single page, smiling wider at this unruly script; he never was the neatest person. I sat back, and started to read.

Dearest Amelia,

I’ve missed you so, every day I wake up and you’re not beside me,it's slowly killing me.I hope you are well, you never tell me how you are; just how everything else is. Things are getting rough here, everyone wants to go home. Most of the men have wives waiting for them at home, and the lucky ones have children sending little notes about how the miss them. Whenever we get a letter it’s like our one ray of sunshine in an otherwise bleak day. We don’t get much sun in these trenches, just a lot of water, mud and rats. I hate the rats, they knaw at our clothes and leave us little brown presents on our makeshift pillows. Not that we get much sleep around here either, what with the wizz and whoosh of what seems like a constant fire storm. On the rare occasion that the water in the trenches is clear enough to see my reflection, I’ve noticed that I look like a scary old man. If you saw me now you wouldn’t even recognize me, I have a beard like Lincoln only more unruly, my hair looks wet because it’s so greasy and matted, but the thing that I noticed first was my eyes. They look dead, like a ghosts eyes, you must remember their brilliant green, but now they look like a witling plant. The green is leaving them, leaving a dead brown color in its wake. But when I come home, they will return to normal; they have too.

I wish I could tell you that I’ll be home soon; but the truth is I have no idea when I am coming home. Nobody is winningthis war right now; we’re just shooting rockets in the hope of destroying one of their trenches. More often than not we miss completely, but I guess I have to trust that the officers know what they’re doing. But the longer I’m out here in these waterlogged trenches; I come to relise that we’re going to be here for a while. Something has to change, it just has too. In a way I wouldn’t mind if the other side won if I got to come home to you because I miss you so bad it hurts. But I will come home eventually, I have to see your smiling face again.

This is where my letter ends, I have to attempt to sleep or I might fall asleep on gun duty tomorrow. But before I put down my pen I have to tell you this; I love you. I always have I always will. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I will be home, maybe not soon, but someday I will return to you. Until then, I love you unconditionally as always.

Your loving husband,

George.

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes as I read his last words. Someday I sighed, someday I will see you again. I didn’t know it yet but those six words became my life line, the thing that kept me going.

The letters stopped coming, every day I sat upon my porch hoping in vain. I never saw his untidy writing again. After two months of hoping, and praying I came to terms with the fact that a reply was not coming. I came up with all sorts of reasons for why he didn’t write; but in my heart I knew the reason. Any theory’s that I had conjured up were disproved by a letter that came in the mail almost two months after that day, the day that the word someday came to mean never.

Mr. Johnson wasn’t his bubbly self as he handed me the letter, he knew it was bad news. Unlike the previous letters, this one was crisp and didn’t have a single wrinkle; government paper never did. It was addressed just like the last one, only instead of a comforting scrawl, bold print letters proclaimed that the letter was meant for me. Slowing I walked to my rocker, knowing that it would be the last time I opened a letter in it. I slowly ripped the envelope, the proceeded to unfurl the bright white paper. I only had to read the first sentence too know what the whole letter would say.

Mrs. Amelia C. Michelson, I regret to inform you…

I couldn’t read past there for my eyes were filled to the prim with all my bent up emotions, worries, prayers, and hopes. They spilled out of me through the newly opened floodgates of my eyes. I cried from my husband, for myself, for the life that I could never have, for his family, for all the troubles ahead, but mostly for the child that currently grew inside me. He would never know his own child, his child would grow up without a father and with a heart broken mother. Therefore I cried, the sun had already passed zenith before my eyes dried. And they stayed dry, I never cried for him again.

I moved in with my sister since her husband was also away, I could not support myself and a newborn child on my own without help. I had a the child, a beautiful baby boy, my sister and I took care of him together. We raised him well, he was a strong little boy, I wish he could say that he looked just like his father; but he didn’t. He was a male version of me, he had my pale skin, by blonde curly locks, and my promenade freckles. But there was one small difference between him and I, he had green eyes, beautiful brilliant green eyes. I saw George in them every day, and I was thankful thatone of my prayser was answered; I did see his beautiful eyes again, just not in the way that I had originally wished. My son asked me every once in a while why he didn’t have a dad, like all the other little boys who he played with. These were the hardest times for me, when he asked those questions, I almost shed a tear. But instead of crying I smiled down at him when ever he asked. I always told him the same thing, “You’ll see him someday darling, someday he will come back too you.”