The Soldier's Last Post Shaina Tranquilino November 7, 2024
Philip Connor sat alone on his porch, the dawn just starting to edge over the hills, casting a faint light on the rows of fields stretching out beyond his farmhouse. The mornings had become his time—quiet, unburdened by the chaos that lingered in the darker hours of the night. He cradled a cup of black coffee, its warmth steadying his shaking hands, hands that had seen too much.
It had been three years since his final tour, but the memories of that last deployment clung to him like an unseen shadow. Night after night, he was yanked back to that place, forced to relive the sounds, the smells, and—most painfully—the faces of his fallen comrades. He’d seen counselors, taken medication, and tried every form of therapy he could find, yet peace seemed as distant as the deserts he had left behind.
Then, one morning, an idea struck him like a flash of lightning: letters. He would write to them, his fallen friends—Jack, Marco, and Ben, and all the others who hadn’t come home. He didn’t know why the thought had occurred to him, but it brought a calm he couldn’t explain. That very afternoon, he sat down at his old wooden desk, took a deep breath, and put pen to paper.
“Dear Jack,” he wrote, “You were the best of us. Always quick with a joke, always there to calm us down when the days turned dark.” He poured himself into the letter, letting the words carry his pain, his anger, and, yes, his gratitude. Writing was hard at first, and at moments he felt silly, foolish for talking to the dead. But he kept going, each word giving him a sense of relief he hadn't felt in years.
Each morning brought another letter. He wrote about their shared memories, the laughs, and even the arguments. Each word, he realized, was a step forward—a small release of the burden he carried.
“Dear Marco,” he penned another day, “you were the first to step forward, always ready to shield the rest of us from the worst of it. I want you to know that I’ll never forget your courage. You taught me what it means to be brave.”
One by one, he penned his thanks, and one by one, he let each friend go. Each letter transformed his pain, giving it a place outside himself. He knew these were more than just letters; they were his way of paying tribute, his way of healing.
As the last letter was finished, Philip felt something shift inside him, a gentle release. The weight that had pressed against his chest was lighter. There was an unexpected peace, fragile but real, the beginning of something he had long thought impossible.
One morning, after the final letter was sealed, Philip walked to the nearby hill where an old oak tree stood. He buried the letters beneath its roots, each one a tribute, a silent promise to live for them. As he stood beneath the morning sun, a feeling of warmth and stillness washed over him.
For the first time in years, Philip Connor felt like he was home.
