My Loves.

My greatest fear was always hurting him. He was one of the best parts of me, the only part of me that I liked at the time. He made me see the world in the best light. No. Not just the best light. He made the world light up in a kaleidoscope of colors that were often too bright for my own shaded eyes. But I loved it. Loved the feeling, the slight ounce of pain I felt every time I looked into one of his too bright smiles. That twinge of pain that I felt every time he looked at me too deeply, too happily. And I loved him. And I hurt him. And there’s no going back. There's no stopping what I’ve done. There's no stopping what I set in motion. What we’ve set in motion. Because as much as I loved him, I loved him even more. I love him more than I love him. I love him so much that I was willing to spend the rest of my life hating myself for hurting him but to not be with him, to spend more than an hour apart from him, it killed me. It absolutely killed me and I couldn't do it. I was weak in that aspect. And even though I hated it, myself, and what we’ve did to him, it can't be helped. We couldn't be helped.  

I think about that as I ripped open his letter. I knew it was from him. While there were two people in the military that I knew, I only expected letters from one of them. My poet. My love. My everything. My hands shook as they always did when I got his letters and yet, my nail slid easily underneath the flap and then the slightly crinkled, yellow pages were being pulled out and then I was unfolding them, sinking down onto my floor. My eyes immediately devoured his chicken scratch, his words, the very thing that made me fall in love with him in the first place.  

The world around me faded and suddenly, we were not thousands of miles apart. We were not in different countries. He was not in a war zone, I was not in my college dorm. We were right next to each other. Our sides touching, his hand wrapped around mine, his eyes on my soul. I could feel his long hard body pressed tightly against mine, his breath on my skin. For as big as he was, he was never one for personal space. He never made me feel crowded with his closeness. In fact, it was always the opposite. I needed more. I craved more. I would happily be suffocated by him and I would still gasp for more. 

My eyes read his words while my heart soared over oceans and seas, over land both brown and green, wet and dry. My soul sought him out and I knew that I’d found him when his first sentence settled into my body, echoing like a stone thrown into an empty well. My body filled up with everything that was him and for the first time since I read his last letter two weeks ago, I could finally breathe. 

But, as always as I read his letter, I couldn’t ignore that familiar pang of guilt that settled deep into my stomach. For him. He was in the same place, fighting the same horrors and yet, I couldn't do anything to ease his pain as I did with the other. I couldn’t write him or email him or anything because he specifically asked for space. I was hurting him and that killed me. But while it killed me, while it hurt him, I couldn’t stop reading his words. Call me selfish but I couldn’t stop. 

I devoured them as I would devour food left out on a starving day. As I would seek out shelter in a thunderstorm. I read his words, soaking in them, bathing in them, living in them. 

I read his words once, twice and then a third time before I felt my heart come flying back to me after a soft whispered goodbye to him. It came over blues and browns and greens. It flew until it reached me and then it settled back into my body, a hollow husk that it had been for months since his deployment.  

I clutched his letter to my chest, tears sliding down my cheeks, wetting the pages. I tried to preserve his letters at first. The first five that I received were in laminated sheets, stored in a binder at my desk. Now, I savored his letters. I breathed them in, tucked them underneath my pillow and slept with them tucked up against my chest. The last couple letters I had from him were torn and tattered, his pen scratches faded from use.  

A feeling of foreboding came over me as I set the letter down against my thigh. A feeling that something bad was going to happen. That his letters would stop, his words would stop filling my soul with the only breaths of life I got. Something deep inside of my gut told me that I wouldn't be receiving his little whispers of love any longer. So, I soaked up as much as I could from the letters I revived. While they were still there. 

He used to tell me that I was just being paranoid. I used to tell him that I was just terrified. 

As I brought his letter up to my noise to get any sense of him that I could, my eyes snagged on another letter sitting on the edge of my desk.  

Frowning, I reached for it, my heart hammering inside of my chest. He never sent two letters at once. At least, I never get two letters from him at once. I wish I did. Double him would have been a gift so precious, I would have probably sobbed before I got the chance to read his words. 

My eyes scanned over the boxy letters on the front of the envelope. My heart stopped, shuddered and then completely fell to the bottom of the ocean. I knew that handwriting. I’ve received one letter from him, one and only letter from him in the past six months. It was a letter short and to the point, but it was filled with so much hurt, so much betrayal, that it imprinted itself onto my heart forever. It was the cause of the guilt that I felt now, that I felt anytime I had anything to do with him.  

The letter, his letter, fell out of my hand and fluttered to the floor. My eyes did not waver from the unopened letter on my desk. I don’t know how long I stared at it, don’t know how much time had passed or what happened in the world while I stared at the sealed letter. Enough time passed for my eyes to droop with tiredness and then I moved like a snake striking in fear. I snatched the letter off my desk and tore it open. It ripped at the edge, zigzagged across the front, tearing the first of his boxy letters. 

The entire letter shook as if going through an earthquake as my eyes scanned the letter. I was too afraid too actually read the words. It took me another unseen amount of time before I actually stopped, breathed and focused.  

I read his letter, the second and last one I would ever get from him. I read his letter, the words that he sat down and took the time to write out when I knew that he hated writing more than he hated doing course work. I read his thoughts, his feelings. I read his soul and there’s no amount of will power that would stop the tears from sliding down my cheeks.  

Because this was the last letter, the last time I would ever hear from him. From both of them. 

Because across ocean and seas, over land both brown and green, wet and dry, my men, the two greatest loves of my life, were dying. They were thousands of miles away, fighting a war while I was tucked safely away, and they were dying.  

He ran off towards a child in the middle of enemy fire and he ran after him. Because before me, they were best friends. And even though they both had intentions of saving someone else, they didn’t make it. Across a dry field of enemy territory, my two men were struck down with bullets of hate. One died shielding a child, the other died shielding his best friend.  

“I lost them both that day. I wouldn't know it for two weeks, but the last pieces of them that I had were their letters. The last two letters either of them would ever send.” 

“And what happened next?” 

My eyes fall on one of the ten-year-olds across from me, the one who has his same, soul searching eyes and quick whited grin. “Well, I cried for weeks, of course. I read and re-read their letters, repeatedly. And then I found out that I was pregnant with you two. And my entire life changed.” 

My two boys, the two greatest loves of my lives after my men, grin back at me. One, with soul absorbing eyes, the other with the most bright, full of life eyes that I’ve only seen once before. Two mirrors of the men that I lost that day, ten years ago.  

“But they never knew us, right?” 

I shake my head, a sad smile on my face. “No. They never got the chance to meet you two, unfortunately. But you two are spitting images of them and I know without a doubt that they would have loved you.” 

“What was in their letters? What made you cry so hard? You never tell us.” 

“Yeah,” the other chimes in. “You always say we arnt old enough but are we old enough now?” 

I nod my head, my heart beating a steady, even beat. “The letter from your father was one of love and light, of truth and promises. It was a typical letter, a letter with promises of reaching into the sky and pulling down each and every star there, if I asked. It was a typical letter from him,” I say with a happy smile on my face. My children, our children, match my smile. 

“And the other one?” he asks. “What was that one about?” 

My smile stays on my face, just as happy, just as warm. “His letter was completely different than his first. His first letter was filled with hurt and reminders of promises I broke. His second letter, his last letter, was written with for the only thing I ever wanted for him.” 

“What was that?” they ask in unison. 

I smile big and warm, happy tears rimming my eyes. “Forgiveness and acceptance.” 

That same warm feeling I get, even ten years later, fills my body as I think of those two letters. 

“You see, your daddy and your godfather were best friends. From as old as you are now to the day they died; they were best friends. And then when they met me, we fell in love. All three of us. My love for your daddy was always greater, deeper, but I didn’t love your godfather any less. And your godfather had a hard time accepting that for a while. But the last letter I received from him, the last letter that I would ever receive from him, was of him forgiving us and giving us his blessing. So, you see, he went away with pain and heartbreak in his heart, but he came back with love and happiness.  

That’s all I ever wanted from him. Your daddy died knowing that he was the greatest love of my entire life and your godfather died knowing that I loved him and never meant to hurt him. So, at the end, my love for your father and my love for your godfather, overcame all of the obstacles put in our path. 

“And I know that if they were here today, they would go through all of that all over again, as long as you two were waiting at the end, my loves.”