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General

Three years ago

It’s a quiet night, wonderfully warm and tasting of humidity. The man knows this, and remembers how she loves these nights. She would hate the smell of gasoline and the cold, metallic tang of guns and spent bullets. If there wasn’t a war, he would love to bring her here. 

It was a night like this when they finally moved in. The new house was completely barren except for cardboard boxes stacked against the walls, and her mother’s old persian rug on the floor. He had placed a music box on an empty shelf, and wound it up tightly. Laughing, she had twirled into his arms and they had danced all night long to Ella Fitzgerald’s Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye. 

The stars were out, and the moon was nothing special- just a gibbous moon, waxing with potential. Not a cloud was in sight. The night was tinged with a bitter sadness, though- they knew that the draft would come tear him away from her. There was no stopping it. Neither of them wanted to cut off one of his body parts, and so they just had to hope he survived.

Looking back on that, he smiled. That was foolish, to believe he would be fine. He held back a bitter laugh. He couldn’t alert them to his location; it wasn’t fair to get his friends shot too. Faces streaked with dirt and greasepaint wavered in front of his blurry eyes. Faded whispers came from unknown people, and someone tried to put pressure on his hip, but he yelped in pain, and they had to stop. 

Too late for him, one man said softly. What will his girl say? Another one murmured. Can you move your legs? Another one asked. He tried, but to no avail. He shook his head. Paralyzed. He’s a goner. 

The faces blurred and wobbled again, and he smiled grimly. He knew what was next. He would die, be either transported back to Arkansas for burial or cremated, and she would be at home, crying over a flag and his dog tags. 

Oh, how he would miss his home with it’s forests and lakes, and waterfalls, it’s sultry summers and snowy winters. It was her he would miss the most, though; her wild hair, her laughing eyes, her feet made for running and walking and dancing but never sitting still.

In her correspondence four months, she only sent him a ribbon, as she always did, but taped to the ribbon was a slightly smaller ribbon. Come home to us, the note had read. It’s a girl. Names?

He had replied, I don’t care about the name, I know she will be beautiful. You remind me of home, a big house with all the beautiful lights on and a happy family inside, laughing and dancing. And your music box is on the shelf, and everyone is singing or humming along. I wish I was there, because that’s where you are. 

With that thought, a solitary tear slid down a grimy cheek. He would never meet his little girl, or see his wife again. What would the baby look like when she got older? Her black hair, his brown eyes? His brown hair, her blue eyes?A combination? Her nose, definitely, and his eye shape. Her mother’s curves, her father’s long legs and lanky body? Her mother’s height would be beautiful, as she was a graceful 5’7 in heels. 

The last letter he had gotten from her was a polaroid of a beautiful sleeping baby, captioned Little Veronica. The back read, named after her father. He had kept it on him since he had gotten it. Taking it out of his pocket now, he kissed it gently, and with shaking hands, wrote on the back: 8/14/1934- 6/22/1966. 

Send it to her. He whispered, forcing the photo into a man’s hands. 

Another wave of pain rippled through him, and suddenly, he was scared. He didn’t want to die in this godless land of Laos, he wanted to be with his wife and daughter when it happened, preferably a senior. 

It was shocking how mankind cowered in the shadow of their mortality when they once laughed at the very idea.

Another wave hit him, and his throat closed up painfully, his eyes burning with tears. He thought of everything he would miss- birthdays, firsts, smiles and laughter, memories. He coughed, blood dribbling down his chin.

He faintly heard someone calling for a medic, quiet as a mouse. 

People bustled around him, rolling him onto his uninjured side and patting his back, forcing him to cough up more blood. Someone elevated his hip to stop blood loss. A friend of his crammed a ripped piece of fabric in his mouth as a makeshift gag. 

Sorry, he said, and with that, he tried to apply pressure to the wound, but it was too late. 

And with that, his vision faded, and he was gone.

In Arkansas, a music box stopped, and a little girl began to wail. 

She stopped, and the box started again.

Present day

The woman grasped the little girl’s hand tighter. Veronica, behave. The girl stopped tugging at her hand, her father’s flyaway chocolate hair tangling in her eyelashes, electric blue eyes peering out from underneath them.

 Is this our new house? She asked, her nose- identical to her mother’s- twitching. The mother smiled softly, and pushed coiffed black locks out of her face. It is. Do you like it? The girl nodded enthusiastically, bobbing up and down almost. 

It’s a big house, it reminds me of you. You can almost see the pretty lights on inside and a happy family, laughing and dancing. And your favorite music box is on the shelf, and everyone there is singing along. The little girl responded, smiling.

Looking up, her mother had tears in her eyes. What is it, Mama? Do you not like the house?

Her mother smiled at her. I love it. It’s perfect.

She frowned. Are you missing Daddy again? 

She shook her head. The house is just so pretty. 

And in that moment, Charlotte May Alberts knew that she would never miss her husband again, because his heart and soul was right here beside her, forever and always, in the form of his beautiful little girl.



October 01, 2019 02:18

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