Richard.

Heart hot. Mind off. Sat in my back garden on an oak wooden chair with a creak in the side. To have a minute alone, a minute where I can finally be with myself. Peaking through my eyes, blurred with sun rays, I spotted a bee. How blissful to be a bee. Travelling with a backpack full of aims to each flower, collecting the fuel you need to go and share it with your family. Departing my vision from the creature, I view an almost abstract image before me. A million colours to take in. Rolling, tumbling fields of green, healthy grass. I had never really looked at the remarkable painting that was the view of the German Alps. Spots of purple-pink heather create a cinematic effect. Sunflowers, in their bloom, beaming up at the sky with bright, gleaming faces. The sublimity was overwhelming. How could it be that in the same world of terror and war, there can be such pockets of corners that give you such a rush of love, where you feel as if a linen bag full with specs of glitter, proud intentions and forever alight kindness, has exploded inside your very body. Taking in the scenery, to experience the pulse of the earth, inhaling the perfume of the mountain that makes our house a home. That oversees every move, guarding our house in the day, in the night. Completely dissolved in the hills, I disregard the rules and powers over me. The spine of Germany had seen me cry, laugh and sleep. I wish to hug the large green fanged mountains before me. 

Suddenly getting the urge to drink, I arise, only to be greeted by a postman. The most serious, solemn expression on his oval-shaped head drew my attention to the yellow envelope he was holding in his hand. The woman over the road from me got one. It said her son Michael had been killed. I refuse to believe I have received mine. Is he gone? The man who created our home with his bare hands after we wed. He is gone. My husband. I feel so selfish. He may be lost or maybe he ran away. No, he is not dead. My Robert has not left me in this lonesome life. I snatch the yellow envelope from his hand. Turning my shaking body apart from the young man I face the once breathtaking view that is now my biggest enemy. I am envious of the sprouting seedlings. Envious of the trees so old their wrinkles show. With no pride whatsoever. I run. Screaming. Into the hills. I can only imagine what the postman thinks of me. My head is sweating, or is it tears. Am I crying? I must have run so far as my house was a small spec of memories that must be forgotten. Clutching with all my might on to the piece of paper someone would have written without even thinking about the effect it would have on lives. A giant split fell through my left shoe. Why should I care, I have nothing anymore. Violently forcing my shoes off I continue running. I wasn’t tired. I was filled with adrenaline. My whole body reacting as if it were the floor of a violent earthquake. The wind slapping my face so hard I can barely feel my tears. The countryside air allowing itself to be so forced into my mouth so much I feel empowered. 

Stop.

 The air is stiflingly still. It took all the courage I had but I realised. If I don’t receive the telegram, Richard is alive. Ripping up the ghastly haunting fate of my husband, seeing my sweat seep into the paper, forcing the ink to bleed it came to me. I felt better. Even when I got a glimpse of his name. It was okay. I was going to be fine. He was not dead. He is still out there and he is thinking of me and he is wanting, praying, to come home and I am missing him. Walking back to my house I step on a few sharp painful stones. I don’t feel the pain. I don’t feel sad, however, the linen bag that released all of its hidden treasures had retracted it’s offer. It is still scorching hot but I do not need to try and stay under a cover to protect myself. Returning to my previously abandoned garden, climb the highest tree, scraping my legs, tearing my dress. Arriving at the peak, somewhat the closest to heaven that I could be. I let it go. I let the yellow envelope go. It didn’t go very far as they were heavy with sweat. But it helped. I have to accept he might of rose upwards and is waiting for me, but if he is returning to me, I will be ecstatic to welcome him home with open arms, ready to hear all the adventures he experienced. The leaves that have engulfed me in their nest of high observance, created for me a thick layer of shade. Returning to my oak wooden chair with a creak in the side, I face my body towards the sun, maybe my love is looking down on me, apologising. I will never know. I will wait for him, as long as it takes. He can always be on his way home. I understand it may take him a while but he could be a long way away, but if I am at the end of my life, and he has not returned to me, I will feel that burning sensation again in my heart knowing that I will be returning to him. I will see him again. We have a love so pure, unadulterated. 

Even now, 63 years later. I look different, with wrinkles of adventures around my eyes and treasure maps running through my hands. I still wait for him, and every day that the sky beams with light and the sunflowers look proudly upwards, I go outside, sit in a new chair, and think of my memories, which I am so glad I did not forget.