The Dream

The sun was shining the day that he came in the wagon to take me away from my father’s house. We rode in the wagon barely saying a word. We were too nervous to speak. My husband’s farm was ten miles away from the farm where I had grown up in Tennessee. It was a small farm but would provide a good start for us.

I could hardly get my bearings as he dragged me from one sight to another. First, I got a glimpse at the inside of the cabin. Clean and new, you could tell the care he had taken in building it for us. And then he led me to the barnyard, and the henhouse, and we surveyed the chickens and the cattle.

We lived happily in the little house taking care of the chickens and cattle, tending our crops until the next spring. War erupted in the South, and unable to shirk his duty he made preparations to go and fight. My feet were bare in the cool, green grass as he went over the instructions one final time. Mind the corn. Have the neighbor across the way come and cut the hay. Send to my daddy for help when it came time to slaughter a beef. I promised I would be alright. I reminded him again that I could take care of our place until he came back.

I remember that one last look. I shaded my eyes as I looked up at him astride old Gray. He looked handsome in his uniform. I hoped he wouldn’t be gone long. We had no idea how much time would pass before he came home again. I felt a tremble in my stomach and thought it might be pangs of the grief I was holding back, trying to betray my emotion. So I stood there, my bare toes in the green grass watching him ride away . . .

It was cold early that fall. I went on and tended to the daily chores. I fed the chickens and milked the cow. I watched the hay cut and stacked in the barn. And I began to sew for the child who would soon be coming to fill my days. I happily wrote letters to him of all the happy news, the little happenings, and tried to hide the loneliness that I felt.

One day, I didn’t make it to the barn to milk or feed. I didn’t make it to the henhouse to gather the eggs. I didn’t make it to the spring to carry in the water. I couldn’t leave my bed. Consciousness floated in and out as I struggled to wake from dreams of heat and cold. I don’t know how many days passed before a neighbor stopped to check on me. I remember a jumble of faces. Mama and daddy came to me. I remember their voices. They sounded far off and muffled from my bed in the corner. I lost the struggle and they buried us—me and the baby under a tall, old tree in the front yard.

He came home. Spared of bullets and fever to find the little house empty, there was no wife and no child to greet his homecoming. Years later you could find him sitting in a straight backed chair staring at the little stone in the yard. Yearning for all that he had lost, he lived out his days in the little house.

 

 

Reviews

[Fabian G. Franklin]

This is a sad tale but one that was a fact for so many; to me that is what makes it powerful. It has the ability to suspend disbelief with the exception of the narrator being dead of course. I have visited so many Civil War graveyards that it is an unlikely truth. But so is the thought of 30,000 Americans dying on one battlefield in one day; yet, it happened. The letter of one soldier read, " In the morning I looked out on the mountainside and you couldn't see the ground but just bodies on top of bodies as far as you could see and the steam was rising off the dew between the corpses making them look like they were burning. The sounds of muffled cries and dying groans drifted up the hill. I went behind a rock and got sick" The practice of putting flowers on graves was started by Confederate widows and sweethearts (a fact most folks don't know) When the Union wives saw the women doing this, they were so moved by such devotion that went beyond death that they too took up the practice.
A wonderful story you have written here.

[...]

. to read these words is like seeing them etched in tears on a silenced heart ... i can only imagine the longing he felt ... the loss must have nearly killed him ... he would have personified devastation all day ... every day ...

[Zachary_James]

i have to say one of the BEST stories i've read in a long time

[Susan Wingate]

Nice emotional short. I enjoyed very much your description of him leaving. And, although there are many naysayers about switching POV, it didn't at all offend when you switched from 3rd person to 2nd at the end. Nice work.

[Millionth Muse]

It's always amazing to me how good writers can tell a story in so few words...this was by no means a long piece, and yet it was filled with more emtion than many of the novels that I have read as of late. Beautifully done!

[Jibey]

Sad and simple. You keep the description simple and the short sentences add to the effect. The woman seems almost detached from what is going on in her world.., Somehow the tragedy is presented as part of the round of life in its rural setting... Powerful and moving...

[Ellen Hammond]

What a great story, albeit so sad. I was thinking the husband would die but your twist really makes this piece stand out. The imagery draws the reader right into the tale. Very well done, my friend.

[cest la vie]

Oh my...what a sad story....
you are a wonderful storyteller..
if you have more, please send me RR.Ilove this type of story

excellent

[BULLET FOR MY VALENTINE]

This is incredibly sad a real tear jerker i guess there is a moral question here for what we lose sight of in life might be the love ones who we once took for granted be it from a duty bound or an acceptence that one must part in this life to be re-united in the next.
A great read totally enjoyed