The Deterrent of My Goodbye

My Grandma Frances once told me "God will give you signs but you have to pay attention". Her words ring in my ears every single day, not because I have faith, but because I have lost faith. As I sit achingly alone in what once was a house full of colour, my mind pulsating with endless anguish, I ask the universe, with my perished hands clasped together, why didn't you take me too?

Its December 24th 1945, Christmas Eve, not that there will be even the tiniest nod to the festivities from me. I am sitting inside the remnants of our home, forgive me, this is no longer "our" home. Nor is it a home anymore, just a shell of what used to be, a cemetery of the time before. The war ended just over 3 months ago, time has stood still ever since, the air we now breathe is full of mourn, filling us up with every breath, oh how we all mourn. I glance up from my letter, 4 sets of eyes from photographs burn into my soul. I stare back solemnly but only for a second, that is all I can handle for now. 

His name was Reginald and her name was Mary, my heart is an anchor in my chest as I recite their names in my mind, they are everything to me.

And now they are gone. 

Reginald has been gone since 1939, called to war to fight for his country, for our country to live in amity, our family's future. Instead, all that returned home to us was a telegram, delivered by a dishevelled boy. I did not consent to swapping my husband for a mere piece of paper, at least in my mind I did not. However his safety was never guaranteed even if he was by my side, my daughter is proof of this. She was lost in the Blitz. I lost her in the Blitz. We were running, running for our lives, the earth behind us erupting from explosions, but we were separated by brutal force and then my world was blown to smithereens, quite literally. 

She was 6 years old. 

I look up from my letter again, our house paused in time, myself stuck here with it. The house and I were the two things the war did not swallow up, for what reason I am not convinced even God would know the answer to. But here we are, covered in dust, surrounded by gloom and smashed up memories. I think I can hear a kind of scratching outside my door? Perhaps surviving townspeople collectively sweeping, attempting to discard of the war. Shame they cant sweep away our grief.

Since 1941 I have been alone, four years spent in underground blackness, my mind was silent but my surrounding's were not. My soul was absent, it exited body the night my daughter died since then I lived, barely, in a grief-stricken blur. I am not sure my soul ever will return, at least not the soul I once was. Now, I spend my days morbidly revisiting each devastated room of what once was our home.

Like a ghost.

This, I wish to be. Sooner than the Lord has planned.

I scrawl my name at the bottom of my letter, M F Aldred. Martha Frances Aldred, in hope that whoever finds my letter will continue to search for the bodies of my beloved so we can share our grave peacefully together, but controversy to this, my faith in humanity no longer exists. 

The letter is complete, which means only one more matter to see to. I glance up to my banister, the gateway to my family is hanging, swaying and creaking softly in the bitter winter breeze. The hairs on my body rise, I can only hope God can forgive me for my choice of departure from this life. Then again, do I forgive him?

My front door now rattling frantically in what I presume to be the winds outside. I lapse, not long enough to reconsider my decision, something about the wind draws me to investigate. At least I can take one last look at the world to remind myself of the reason for my demise. 

I open the door. 

My eyes squint at the unfamiliar light that is ripping its way through the ash clouds, I take in the lurid city ruins for the last time. My gaze quickly turns to the ground, the light is painful however what I see before me shocks me to my core. A small dog, covered in black soot, strands of white fur decorate its face and tail. It looks up at me, its eyes full of the same anguish. I reach out my trembling hands, the dog whimpers. I wipe the dirt from the mutts fur to discover a navy blue battered collar. Standing upright I scan the streets left to right, in hope for a person searching for this scanty animal, however the people outside are sweeping, deep in tragic thought whilst also rooted in dust. 

The stray looks up at me, a slight waggle in its tail, don't get too excited my little tousled friend, I wont be staying. I crouch down one last time to pat the little mongrel when a glimmer of silver flashes before my eyes, I notice a tag attached to his collar. Taking my sleeve, I wipe the war away, revealing a tag.

My Name is Hope.

The words of my Grandma Frances fill my ears, sunlight blasts through the grey clouds injecting the first dose of warmth onto my face, the first fragment of colour in the sky, my ears ring with the clatter of sweeping brushes hitting the ground as other survivors look up at the sky. I stare down at the dog, he stares back at me, his eyes burning into my soul the same way my family photographs did.

Only, he is here. And so am I. 

I clasp my hands together and I pray. "Dear Lord, if this is my sign, I am willing to give you a second chance, I pray you look after my family in heaven as I will look after your gift on earth. I will not lose Hope, again".