Do Not Go Gentle - Part 2

Over the years that follow, we get by, Mother and I. We listen to the radio perhaps more frequently than before, but everything seems the same. But the gaping hole my brother left gets wider with every hour, every day, every month, every year. The memories of the times we spent together become more vague with each passing day, and my heart aches for their return.

*

When the war ends, our hearts are alight with joy. Mother starts singing again, and takes it upon herself to do some, 'spring cleaning'. We ignore the six month absence of his letters. All is forgotten in the light of his return. So we sit, and we wait. The table is our permanent place of residence, and as we talk, read or play scrabble, our eyes will often flicker to the window, straining to see Charlie bounding up the path, his laughing brown eyes twinkling, untidy dark hair ruffled by the wind's touch.

*

He never came back.

I'm awoken from my slumber one stormy night to the sound of my Mother's choked sobs. Descending the stairs, I become aware of a short, slightly chubby officer who stands at the bottom, evidently waiting for me to reach him so he can tell me...something. I suddenly don't want to know what that 'something' is. I could charge back up the stairs, back into my room, where I would escape through the open window and leap into a world of possibilities. Not straight facts. I don't want them anymore.

*

But I reach the bottom before my legs can obey my thoughts. I stare, scowling, as the officer clears his throat awkwardly and begins to enlighten me as to the whereabouts of my brother. Mother looks on, the tears streaming down her face tearing deep scars in my heart.

*

Lost. That's what he is. The officer told me he's Missing In Action, but lost sounds better. More promising. If you're lost it's possible to find your way home.

*

I don't quite know what to do now. Nor does Mother. She spends her time sat in her chair, benumbed, the fight gone out of her. She gets up only to retire to her room for the night. I sit with her, sometimes, when I'm not doing her jobs. I can't bear to go upstairs, and see the hook that will always be empty, with no medal adorning it. Because even though he's only lost, I know he isn't coming back. I can't feel his presence in my world anymore.

*

When I'm not with Mother, I'm outside. The summer breeze does little to clear the fog of grief in my heart, but I can pretend that everything is as it was. My brother's promise rings in my ears often during the day, and I silently curse him for not honouring it. Whatever effort he made to save himself, it wasn't enough. So I spend my days both grieving him and raging against him. When sleep finally comes late in the night, I collapse into the blankets, too exhausted to let the tears flow.

*

I awaken early one morning about a month later, which surprises me as normally I don't wake until noon. A short, sharp whistle bounces around my skull and as I shake away the grogginess I realise it must be the postman. Yawning, I stumble to the door and heave it open.

*

I'm too late for the postman, who has already disappeared through our rotting wooden gate, but I pick up the small accumulation of envelopes he left and shut the door thankfully, for the air has a chilly bite to it this morning.

*

When I am once again surrounded by the stale, stuffy air, I sort my way through the envelopes. Most of them are bills, and I sigh heavily at the realisation that I am the one who will have to pay them. At the bottom of the pile is a yellowed envelope, it's corners bent slightly. I turn it over onto it's front, and as I read over the thin, slightly scrawly writing, I remain perplexed. It takes a few moments for me to realise it is identical to Charlie's. When I do, I'm suddenly trembling, my breath coming in big, heaving gasps. With a shaking hand, I tear at the paper slowly, heart racing. When the envelope is ripped away, two pieces of paper slide out into my hand. The first is titled, 'Mother,' the second, 'Lizzie