A Woman’s War

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Try as she may to ignore it, the shadowbox in the corner kept commanding her attention. How many years had it been? Sometimes it seemed like only yesterday that the telegraph had arrived. The aging paper was tucked in the box in the top of her closet, along with medals she had yet to gather the courage to look at.

Standing, she was startled by the clinking noise beneath her blouse. Pressing her fingers to her chest, the familiar warmth of the metal brought tears to her eyes. Pulling the tags from under her clothing, she traced the name. He always hated that nickname, according to his mother. But it stuck and followed him across the ocean and off to war.

Shaking off the maudlin feelings that were trying to take over, she picked up the cloth and began to dust her knick-knacks once more. She still remembered the service as if it were yesterday. Such formality. The pressed uniforms. Military protocol was followed to the letter. When the lieutenant handed her the flag from his casket, she kept her tears at bay. But the moment she returned to their house, she collapsed on the bed and didn’t get back up until the sun was long gone.

Wiping the lone tear that had somehow escaped, she walked over to the table in the corner. Lightly running a single finger over the cherry maple-case, she was reminded that the sergeant had been as strong as the wood, and to her, also as beautiful.

A knock at the door brought her out of her reverie. Walking over to open it, she looked up into sky-blue eyes underneath a head of unruly blond hair. So much like his father.

“Hey, Mom.” The man gathered her into his arms. “How’re you feeling today? You look pretty.”

“Oh, Charles! Now you’re being silly.” She reached up and smoothed her hair. “I look a mess.”

Charles Saunders leaned back and looked down at his mother. “Well, I say you’re beautiful and that’s that.” Kissing her cheek, he whispered in her ear. “What say I take my best gal out for a sundae?”

Placing a fragile hand on his face, she looked into those blue eyes. So much like him. Sometimes it hurt just to look at her firstborn. But he was a wonderful reminder of the man she had loved more than life itself, and would until her dying day.

“Let me grab a sweater, son.” Moving to the closet, she gave the shadowbox one more glance.

As they walked down the dirt road to the diner, he placed an arm across her shoulders and a serious look came across his handsome face. “Mom, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Stopping, he took her hand in his and with his free hand pulled a piece of paper from his jacket. With trembling lips, she read the words that made her blood run cold and her chest ache.

Her son was going to war.

End.