He went to war in a time when it was voluntary. Â He left for many reasons â some he packed into his suitcase. Â Others he left behind. Â Mainly, he just left. Â
His mother paced at the moment of his departure. Â In turns, she held her breath and then she sucked the air out of the room. Â She scolded others for worrying and then she dropped her tears on the wood floor. Â
He was gone for years. And, the love that went unspoken when they had shared space spilled palpably into the letters they exchanged.
The first letters carried on like life does when we are familiar: âDear Son: The weather here is turning coldâŚâ
But, over time, they shifted to messages shared between the loved, but separated. Â
âDear Mom: There was a time when I was afraid to leave the houseâŚâ
âDear Son: I was harder on you than I should have beenâŚâ
Then, his letters became revealing.
âDear Mom: I used to wear your dressesâŚâ
âDear Son: I spend so much time worrying that you wonât come backâŚâ
Then, his letters turned to the future.
âDear Mom: When I get back, I would love to see the Grand CanyonâŚ.â
âDear Son: I live in constant fear that you wonât come homeâŚâ
He dodged bullets and she dodged worries. Â
Eventually, his letters became historical documents.
âDear Mom: I celebrated Christmas alone. Â But, I donât mind. Â There was a cease fire and I could pretend there was a song in the air.â
âDear Son: Christmas wasnât the same without you. Â The entire family was on edge and nobody could celebrate.â
Then, âDear Son: I donât sleep.â Â
âDear Son: I spend my days consumed with anxiety about your wellbeing.â
âDear Son: I am so afraid to receive a letter with bad newsâŚâ
Then, the dreaded letter did come. Â
She had died in her sleep.
A few months later he returned home. Â
But, nonetheless some of us live forever in a war zone. Â
And some of us die safe in our beds.