When you Left

I still talk to you sometimes, even though you stopped listening to me. Maybe I do it to hide the guilt which still oozes up every now and then, when I look into the eyes of my new man.

You would have called me silly if I’d told you 2 years ago. You would have pulled me in close and laughed your deep, throaty laugh, mussing my hair like I’d always hated. I can still feel the way your rough beard would have tickled my ear, and your low, throaty voice making me a whispered promise that you would go on to break.

I’ll never stop listening to you.

I was happy, you know. I was content, living in our tiny house with our tiny kitchen, chasing our tiny dreams with two tiny children whom we loved more than anything in the world.

But I guess I didn’t realize that my dreams were too tiny for you. I didn’t understand the faraway look you’d get in your eye whenever the ancient radio would belt out a call for new recruits. I couldn’t fathom the uncharacteristic hatred in your voice whenever you’d talk about the Kaiser, and how he would destroy everything that our country stood for.

I can confess now, that it scared me to the core. It scared me to hear you talk about politics and wars and freedom at our rickety dining table. It scared me to watch the fear in my children’s eyes as they watched their father become bitter and restless about a battle being fought thousand miles away.

It scared me to watch the man I loved become something I couldn’t understand, when all I wanted was for you to stay with me forever.

Do you remember what I faithfully did to you, every night after we tucked the children into bed? Sweat-soaked, breathless and flushed, you would whisper in my ear as the bed creaked.

Oh, you’re a wonder, Beth. What would I do without you?

And elated, I would smile at you, euphoric at the thought that my love was enough to chain you here, that we would grow old together, planting carrots in our scruffy backyard while watching the sun set over the horizon. I would drift off blissfully in your arms while you caressed my bare back.

But the glazed look would return the very next morning, and with it, all my fears.

I never confronted you, terrified at what you might choose if forced to decide between your country and me. I sought to keep you with me for as long as possible, sought to keep you satisfied for as many nights as I possibly could.

I suppose that in my heart of hearts, I knew I was only delaying the inevitable.

But I didn’t care. I watched you potter around the house fixing this, I watched you trudge across the farm planting that. I watched all the leaves fall from the trees as the days became shorter, and I watched the cold fury in your eyes harden with each radio broadcast sending tales of your fallen countrymen. I spent all my time watching you, committing your perfect face to the recesses of my memory, because I didn’t know how much time I had left before you would leave.

And one day after dinner, I finally watched you walk slowly towards me. I watched your feet squirm and your hands shake, hesitating as you opened your mouth.

Honey, I -

Do you remember how I cut you off? Do you remember how I threw myself at you, crying, pleading, for you to stay?

Think about the children, I begged.

You gently took my face in your hands, and looked at me sadly.

I am.

And for a time, I believed you. I wrote you letters about the hens laying their eggs, about Emma learning to walk and Charles pricking his little finger on my sewing needle. I wrote to you frantically, terrified that you might miss any detail of our ordinary lives.

Of course, you wrote to us too. You cheerily told us about the murky trenches, the deafening mortars launching shells behind enemy lines, the poison gas, the never-ceasing screams of the dying.

Sometimes, I wonder if my letters ever brought you a moment of solace, or if they just held you down while you were off chasing glory in a foreign land. 

But what did I care? Your letters were my secret talisman, keeping a cautious fire burning low in my soul. Your letters gave the strength to tuck the children into bed by myself at night, stroke their hair and promise them that there daddy would be home before they knew it.

And 7 days into the New Year, you did.

You came home on a snowless winter day, when the packed ice was reflecting glimmering rays of light into the shimmering air.

You came home in an unmarked wooden box which was chipped and worn from days off travel, your body disfigured beyond anything I could have imagined. I thanked the Lord that the children were out playing. They didn’t see their mother collapse on the front porch, sobbing uncontrollably into the arms of the messenger.

‘Twas a landmine, the contrite Sergeant told me. Nothin’ that coulda been done.

Well. You could have stayed home with me, you son of a -

No, I won't go there.

Anyways.

Did I tell you about the time I found Emma crying in the backyard, clutching an aged photograph of you to her tiny chest? Or the time I caught Charles trying to sneak a bottle of your aftershave into his bedroom?

Of course you don’t. You deluded yourself into thinking that everything you were doing was for the children.

But you stopped listening to me, when I needed you the most.

The mattress creaks, and a heavy arm is slung across my chest. 2 years later, the weight still feels foreign, but it fills the black hole you left when you walked away from us.

The guilt fades agonizingly slowly, reducing minutely by the day. But one day, I will let go of it. And I will let go of you.  

I turn my face and look at the Sergeant, to see a seductive smile on his soft lips.

Mornin', Sugar.