The Lost Letter

         He held her close as they both shook with impending fear that this could be their final embrace. With his arms still wrapped around her torso, they shared a long and deeply emotional hug as he whispered in her ear.

        “I’ll always be with you,” he said with a smile as subtle tears streamed from his down his pale freckled cheeks and the side of his narrow chin.

         His auburn locks ruffled in the slight breeze and she shivered ever so slightly. Being the caring boyfriend he was entitled to be, he carefully placed his a lettermen jacket upon her shivering shoulders. The startling blow of an incoming steam engine approached from the north beneath the gleaming moon above. The surrounding golden wheat fields of the barren state of Kansas bowed before the wind. The towering young man removed his head from the top of her head ending the bittersweet moment.

       She turned a bright red as her and her lover went in for a kiss. The final steps within her sight of the very man of her affection headed up the steps of the train. With each slow step her heart synchronized with a beat. She could still feel the warm flush of the blood within her cheeks as streams of tears departed from her hazel eyes. Among other young men he boarded the train and took a seat beside a window. She stood on the very ground that corresponded with his window.  The screech of the wheels pierced her ears as steam blew from the whistle.  The conductor shoveled the last bit of coal into the engine and so it began, the long hard voyage to yet another foreign land.  Slowly the engine gained momentum, for awhile she chased the train with her arms held out to the open window.

      "Florence!" The young man suddenly called before taking out a small black box, "Will you-"

      The commotion around and screech of the train simply burred out his voice. She couldn't quite hear him.

      "What?" She yelled in a quick response.

      "Will you-"

      The train whistle blew. The little black box fell from his grasp and on to the cold cracked pavement. Promptly she appeared before it and the box received the refuge of her palms. Once opened, she gasped. The box contained a ring. Quickly she adverted her eyes back to the train, but it was long gone.

     "Yes!" She shouted, as if the young man could still hear.

As she grew from a fine young woman into an elderly widow, she waited by the mailbox every day and ask the mailman:

        "Any letters from Bart?"

        The man would sadly shake his head and hand her some bills. She nearly asked the question daily. Without a doubt she loved that man with all her heart, but she would never hear from him. She thought of many questions about this whereabouts over two decades on her front porch rocking chair, especially before retreating back into her quite home without a single word from her husband.

        Sometimes, she'd cry behind the closed door of her house for she was alone in this world. Her son had died in Afghanistan. Her husband was possibly still in Vietnam. A faithful army wife and mother, she certainly was but acquiring that title was beyond heart wrenching. Though Bart had never responded, she still hoped he was alive. The simple shrivel of faith she had from that little thought kept her going, it's what kept her alive.

        Old and gray was she today, resting in her bed with a worsening case of Parkinson’s. Her hands did nothing but tremble with each and every attempt to move them. Her at home nurse was gently adjusting her pillow when she heard the mailbox's rusty lid slam shut. Perhaps the mail had come.

 "Mrs. Anderson,” she said softly, "I better get the mail..."

        The old woman nodded in response and awaited her return. The young nurse opened the box and discovered an ancient envelope. It had badly yellowed with age and was rather crumpled. She wondered what it could possibly be and instantly took it back to Mrs. Anderson's bedside and handed the letter to the much older woman. She too was rather curious of the letter's contents and carefully inspected it.  

        Gently she brushed aside a lock of overgrown pepper colored bangs to enable a proper viewing of the crumpled envelope within the palm of her arthritis stricken hand. Carefully, she inspected the old dusty envelope and did not proceed to open it until she was well aware that it was indeed addressed to her. Sure enough, it was.

      Her name was written with a beautiful flow and curvature with each stroke of the hand. Though the cursive looked rather familiar, she was still unsure about who could possibly be the sender. She relived the letter of its crumpled state and slowly broke its red wax seal. After adjusting her worn slightly rusted frames of her glasses, she began to read:

     Dear Teaghan,

    Forgive me my love, for I haven't quite enough time to sit down and write you a proper letter. Here in Vietnam, there is always a soldier in need of my medical expertise. I wish had the time in order to truly and sincerely write you a proper full length letter, but the duty of our great country calls and Uncle Sam is rather unforgiving of those of us to tend to shirk work.

 Love,
          Bartolomeu

        Tears formed from her gray-blue eyes and soaked her wrinkled cheeks and her aged lips quivered ever so slightly. All this time she had developed a grudge against her beloved husband for not responding to her desperate pleas to hear from him after he was drafted. Now, she finally had her closure. Her eyelids grew heavy and her heartbeats approached an alarmingly slow rate before coming to a complete stop.

        "Mrs. Anderson?" The nurse inquired, "Are you alright?”

        She didn't respond.

        "Mrs. Anderson?"

Hey guys, I'd love some tips and constructive criticism on this.

Thanks!