Do you remember

Sensitive content: The story mentions the current wars in the world.

Do You Remember?

My best friend, my beloved husband,

Today, I woke up with the memory of our visit to your parent’s home. Your mother had made your favourite foods and spoke of your naughty childhood days. She narrated the story of the stray puppy you adopted when you were six. You fed him, played with him and named him ‘buddy’. She said you cried for days when he was hurt in a street fight with bigger dogs. Our eyes were moist when we looked at each other. A soldier and his wife.

Do you remember?

You left for war the next morning.

It’s been weeks.

As I look out of the window at the garden in our front yard, I notice the pretty Marigolds and Zinnias blooming. You dug the soil for me and I planted the seeds. I watered them regularly, just as you wanted me to, and the seeds sprouted and grew. I wish you could see them, yellow, orange, pink. I’m sending you a picture. How I miss you. Red used to be our favourite colour but you will notice that there are no red flowers since I snip off the red buds before they bloom. Please forgive me, Now, that colour reminds me of blood and it hurts.

I must admit, I water the garden sparingly, just enough to keep the plants alive. Why? My darling, I’m going crazy. I think of the people trapped because of the war, with no food and water. I hear they are drinking impure water, whatever they can get. The lady on television said there is a danger of disease. Imagine, being thirsty for days and days. The images form and disappear and come back. I push them away but they swirl like a sandstorm in a desert and leave me changed, unrecognizable even to myself. Sometimes, I wonder if you will know me when you return. Will you love me still? 

You gave me so many flowers when we first met. You had explained that for you they were a manifestation of divinity. I had a lump in my throat when I heard the sincerity in your voice. Do you remember? Where you are now, amidst the fallen buildings, the destroyed roads and bridges, with toxic smoke in the sky, can you see flowers growing around you? Do the tanks swerve to avoid flowers in the field or do they single-mindedly move forward, leaving every living thing squashed into oblivion? When will flowers grow there again? Who will grow them? Perhaps there is no place for beauty in a world such as this.

Is there a tear in your eyes?

Yesterday, I saw the images of what is left after a bombing. Why would I not be shocked? The world was horrified. My beloved, I saw the mayhem. Even thousands of miles away, I gasped, my skin prickled. Those bodies, cries, blood. Children, dead children. And what about those who are forever disabled? I shed tears for their suffering. I cried more when I thought of the mothers and the families. These civilians, people like your parents and me. Were they alive, only to mourn their dead for a lifetime? I could not bear it. I switched off the television and hugged our child close. Our child was safe. I kissed her cheeks, once from me, once more from you.

They speak of war crimes and there are protests all over the world. Thousands of people are demanding this war be stopped. No one from their family is out there; their loved ones are not in danger. Yet the news and images have stirred up enough passion to bring them to the streets. Is anyone listening? I thought of the protests we joined during our University days, asking for better cafeteria food. It’s laughable now. At that time, you had said, “Decide for yourself, don’t get carried away by public sentiment.” We had both left the protests because we did not live in the hostel and hardly ate in the cafeteria. We were spoiled by the delicious food made by our mothers. Do you remember? Now, you can understand my reaction to these “Stop the War” protests. Indeed, I’m sure, though I sit inside and the front door is locked.

Our neighbours, the nice old couple who sent us sweets on weekends, no longer speak with me. I know they have loved ones across the border – dear family members who they have not heard from because of the breakdown in telecommunications. They look through me and shift their gaze as if I am responsible for this war. I want to tell them how I feel but then I pause. I remember your words, “Be brave, you must be brave. Hide your fears behind a smile. You have a beautiful smile, my dearest.”

Yes, I smile a lot. I smile till my lips tremble, my muscles ache, and beads of sweat form on my brow. It’s like a workout, then I laugh. I will not let you down.

Your letters tell me so little. You only ask about me, our family – Is everyone in good health? Do I have enough money for all I need? Do I feel safe? You don’t speak of yourself, your days and nights, your state – physical and emotional. I can’t imagine how busy you must be. Busy – such an imbecile word to describe your life as a soldier on active duty. A time when days and nights are one, when killing is a mission, when you are not yourself but a man in uniform, a tool to carry out a leader’s decision even if it means fighting ordinary people, not just the enemy’s army. Sadly, you must obey orders.

Oh, God! I don’t know what to say in my prayers. You had said, pray for victory. But often I sit silent. I have stopped praying for victory because in this tidal wave of brutality, I no longer know what victory means. Then I pray for peace. I pray for life. I pray for your safe return. I know you understand how desperate I am for you, for your touch, your gentle gaze, your calm, just as you must be to come back home to me. My darling, return soon.

Can you tell? I’m so confused. But I see, like me, you are a victim: of complexity, lust for power and selfish gains. In your darkest moments, when you see our child’s face in the enemy, the screams of the wounded echo like a blade within you, the blasts obliterate your love for music, and your soul is filled with questions, think of me, my love. Take heart, I am here, waiting for you. If I am alive, I will be by your side through the rest of our days, whatever form they may take, however many or few there may be, and we will traverse the rest of our journey together.

That was a promise we made to each other.

I remember.

With all my love,

A soldier’s wife.