The Lost Letter

Her wavy blonde locks swayed in an incoming breeze as she and her lover shared a final embrace. As they hugged, she prayed to the great Lord above that he'd have a safe return back to her and their lovely newborn baby boy. Before she whispered her final goodbyes, she urged him to write home every day, but that wouldn't really happen. 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. Perhaps he had  fallen in love with a fellow medic? Maybe he was too maimed to write home himself? She thought of many questions along those lines 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 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?"