Long Forgotten Tears

Intruding on the memories of an old woman.

I shift through the papers in her desk; old letters, to-do notes, shopping lists, diary entries, galore, litter the inside of the drawers. I pick up an old envelope and carefully slide the yellowing paper out. The date reads December 18, 1943, written neatly in flowing handwriting.

"Dear Jeanne," I read quietly to myself. "Every letter you write to me makes everything we're fighting for all the more real. Every word I read that is written in your handwriting, it makes my heart skip a beat and I want nothing more than to see your face light up like it did on our wedding night. In your last letter you sent pictures of our children, how fast they're growing! But you neglected to send me a picture of yourself. How homesick the pictures of the children make me, but not to see your face? That makes this distance so much more unbearable. I love you Jeanne, I cannot wait for the day that I disembark and see your face again..." I let my voice trail off. Joshua was so homesick, all he wanted was to see the face of his wife and children, hear their voices and laughter once more.

The creases of the letter have been folded so many times that the edges are frayed and the old letter is in danger of being torn in several pieces. Stains of long-forgotten tears splatter the page, I grimly wonder how many of those were shed after receiving the news of Joshua’s death, and how many were shed before the terrible news reached her ears?

On the oak desk a scrapbook lays open, an old picture of a beautiful young woman and a handsome young man stare up at me. The woman is smiling, a simple white dress covers her small figure, and a bouquet of roses lay in her arms. The man has his arm around her shoulders, and is looking lovingly at his bride. The background of the picture is very plain, simple, and yet perfect. Unblemished black, completely solid, holding all the colors of the rainbows captive.

I’ve never really liked looking through scrapbooks, I feel as if I’m intruding in someone elses life, sneaking into a place that I don’t belong. These memories don’t belong to me; those smiles were made years before I was even a thought floating around in space. The laughter was toward a joke that has been long since forgotten and hasn’t been uttered since. The young men and women have been replaced by wrinkled, old bodies, maybe even corpses. Who I am to be intruding upon their memories? Intruding upon their past?

I gently close the fragile memories, so old, so easily forgotten by a world that won’t stop moving forward. Opening the letter once more, a tear falls down my cheek as I read the final words.

“Jeanne, men are dying by the hundreds every day, I hope, I pray with all my being that I will make it back home to see you and our babies. Don’t be worried if you don’t receive another letter for a while, we’re moving camps, and I will not be able to write until we are once again settled down. I love you Jeanne, no words can do that justice.”