Dear Emily

A letter from a war veteran to his dying wife: when there is death, there is always love.

Dear Emily,

                Funny position we’re sitting in, isn’t it? I never thought we’d be here, but we’re here all right baby, and it half scares me straight outta of my mind. I’m staring at the glass pig I gave you for your twenty-fifth birthday. If you remember, I’d gotten you that because I’d forgotten the birthday girl, and I’ll be damned if you didn’t call me out on my bluff. I’ve never forgotten your birthday since, but I’ve noticed that you loved the last minute figurine I pick up from the farmer’s market the best out of all my gifts. It’s my favorite too.

                Look at me being all sentimental. You wouldn’t think a hard-cracked a*****e army man who’s seen it all could be sentimental, huh? Here I am, defying all odds again. That’s a joke, Em. Lighten up a little bit, I haven’t seen you smile in so long.

                Strange thing is, your smile was the first thing I saw when I met you in ’41. It was the town fair, and me and the guys were going to “get some chicks,” the night before we were deployed. Stockl’s words, not mine. I was nineteen, scared shitless of something I didn’t know yet, and a night in the town carnival seemed like a good idea. The captain warned us not to drink too much unless we wanted to show up drunk the next morning and have our asses served. Of course, as you can expect, J-Man saw this as a challenge and decided to drink as much alcohol as his scrawny little body could hold (which was not a lot), and boy, he got his a*s served to him all right. He was a good guy, though, with bad luck. Wrong place, wrong time.

                Anyways, it was good fun. We were pushing each other towards god-awful girls, but I wasn’t really into it. My stomach seemed like an empty hole, ready to eat me alive at any second and show the world that I wasn’t a man yet. Hell, I’d never even kissed a girl and I was nineteen. If anyone asked my track record, I’d just say that it was my good ‘ol Southern manners that told me to respect girls. Truth is, I was just too ugly to get any. I hadn’t grown into my awkward lanky frame until I was eighteen, and when I finally did, I had gotten enlisted. Wasted potential, I tell you. That’s a joke again. I know you think I’m the funniest man alive, Em.

                I saw you with your girlfriends in the line for cotton candy. You were laughing, and your smile was as wide as the ocean. I couldn’t stop staring; it was like staring at the Sun. You want to see how bright it can shine, but you have to stop before you get permanent damage. See, someone shoulda told me that in advance, and maybe I wouldn’t have stared so hard. Stockl nudged me in the arm.

                “Easy on the eyes, isn’t she?” he laughed, nodding in your direction. I didn’t say anything, but I knew I turned bright red. Damn Irish genes.

                “I dare ya,” J-Man said, winking in your direction. “Beat up that tool and get your girl, man. Live a little.”  

                It was then that I noticed the guy with his arm around your waist. He was a straight up villain, if I’d ever seen one. Straight up protective too, with his arm curled like it was some kind of steel trap. I was half surprised to see that he wasn’t scolding you for laughing too loud. (I’ve seemed to have conveniently forgotten his name).

                “Nah, he’s too much of a girl to,” said Stockl. “His pretty little lashes are too long. He wouldn’t be able to tell a woman from a man if they took their shirts off.” He chortled with the J-Man as if was a god-sent present to the comedic world. But back then, it was enough to get me going and I agreed in a heartbeat. Why the hell not? I didn’t know that you would be the reason that I never stopped fighting. That when my brothers lay beside me their blood spilling onto the already bloodied fields where everyone is a friend, I only thought of you at home and that was why I survived.

                I could feel your eyes on me. I knew that you knew that I was approaching you. (Actually, I was just pretending. I didn’t know that you were looking at me, but I like to believe that you were. How embarrassing if you weren’t). I stopped right by the cotton candy cart, and looked up.

                And dear lord have mercy if you weren’t the prettiest little lady that I’d ever seen in my life. You were even more beautiful up close, and I drank you in like ambrosia. Your hair was long and it curled down your back like golden waves. Your eyes were bright green, and as I stared at them (possibly scaring you with the intensity?) it was as if I had taken a stroll in the forest. I knew I could take that walk forever. But the best part, the very best part, was your smile. Which, as I stared at you, didn’t seem to have appeared on your face once.

                “Yes?” you asked curtly. I was a bit taken aback by your harshness (you obviously didn’t feel that I was your soul mate), until I remembered the guy who stood beside you like a purple elephant. Or more like a wart. He was glaring at me like I had pulled down his pants and hung him upside down. I blinked.

                “Uh, sorry ma’am,” I croaked, nervous as hell. “It’s just that you’re quite flawless, and I was wonderin’ if you’d allow me to buy your candy for you.”

                You looked angry. Your jailer looked angrier. His mouth was opened to speak, but you put your hands on his arm before he could.

                “I’m with my boyfriend, if you couldn’t tell,” you said, your voice like the sweetest music, “but it was very kind of you to offer. You seem like a nice man.”

                I almost cried tears of happiness. I probably would have, if you didn’t turn your back to me and it dawned that I still hadn’t gotten the girl. Typical me. But no, not tonight, and most certainly not with you.

                “Wait,” I blurted out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. It’s just that, well, you don’t seem too happy with this man over here.” I took a shot in the dark. Hell if I knew if you were unhappy with your boyfriend. I was too busy looking at the sun to notice the little pebble that hadn’t left earth. Your girlfriends, who I had completely forgotten about until then, gasped. Spot on.

                Your jailer’s eyes widened and if it were a movie (a really, really bad one), they would have turned blazing hot red. He lunged, and he didn’t miss. I let him hit me for a little bit, before I got fed up. I figured I deserved it, even though it was like having little hail stones hit you. Annoying, but it didn’t really hurt. I finally reeled my hand back and planted one square on his face.

                Stockl and J-Man ran up behind me to make sure I didn’t get too out of control, but I was done. I looked to you hopefully, and once the shock left your eyes, you marched up to me and gave me the hardest slap of my life.

And that, Emily, was how we met, but you already knew that.

Listen. I’m tired of writing to you, and I mean that in the kindest way possible. I want you to get better, and I want you to get better now. I miss waking up beside you and I miss you lecturing me to stop shaking my leg under the table during dinner like a madman. More than anything, I want you for selfish reasons, because I don’t think I can live without you by my side.

                                  

I love you, spitfire          

Tom

Emily Stein never got this letter. She had received one every other day for one year, the year in which she fought a tireless battle against pancreatic cancer. A week after she was pronounced dead, Tom Stein trailed after her, as he always had even in life. After all, how do you live without the sun?

 

Author's Note

Unless you've personally sent someone to war or if you know someone who has, Memorial Day is typically considered the reason for a blissful three-day weekend. Don't lie, it's true, and I'll be the first to admit it. But see, I wanted to do something this year, anything. Words, I feel, can express so much. Although I didn't write much about the bloodiness of war, I wanted to acknowledge that when there is death, there is always love. Most of the time, it's even stronger. All soldiers have lives (spouses, parents, children), that through intense sacrifice had to be given up for little people like me. I want them to know that they are respected, they are revered, and above all else, they are loved. And I want them to know that without them, there is no us.