Sleep eluded him.

He remembered her warmth, the comfort she had offered. She had always helped him when his
eyes refused to grow heavy and his mind raced. Focusing on the rain, he tried to keep calm. A
cough escaped him, drawing crimson stains from his lungs as he clutched his bleeding chest.
All this effort just to die alone. He had dug this foxhole for himself.

Now he wanted to hold her again before it became his grave.

-----------------------------------------------

The radio was blaring some swinging music as she danced through the kitchen. Arms
plunged elbows deep into the bubble-covered sea of dirty dishes and scalding water, breaking
their mirthful film. A plate, once full, now stained with the gutted remains of mashed potatoes,
gravy, and creamed corn; a grand feast these days, that was for sure. A small smile crept
across her face. They were doing well, even with the war raging, pulling men, material, and food
overseas. As the notes floated through the empty house, a child’s voice drifted across her ears,
shattering her thoughts of the distant fight.

“Momma!” The bundle of pink cloth and messy blonde hair dashed through the gap
between counters, nearly tripping on the bump where the devious floor switched its make from
the wooden dining room to the tiled checkers of the kitchen proper. Her little arms flailing to
keep her balance, the girl skidded to a stop in front of her mother. Wet hands, covered with the
suds and dripping the cleansing water, flew to her hips, thumbs wrapping backward and fingers
soaking the flour-white apron that concealed her dress.

“Felicity, what have I told you about runnin’ in the house!” She scolded, her words
mellowed if only briefly, the little one’s near-boundless enthusiasm. Her small face fell, and her
little head bowed, loose locks of hair falling over her face, the spilling golden-brown strands
veiling her face. Shaking her head, the woman’s features softened, and she spoke again softer
this time. “What did you want?”

“When is Daddy coming home? I made somethin’ for him, and I wanna show ‘im!” The
child’s innocent question shattered her mind like a gunshot, freezing her. Her mind flashed to
this morning, and the messenger boy who had caught her while she had been out to get the
mail. His message, hidden in a formal envelope and tucked away among today’s mail, had
lingered in the back of her mind, part of her knowing what was inside, no matter how much she
wanted desperately for it to not be true.

“I don’t know, sweetie.” Her reply was soft, and thin, a facade of soothing words helping
her smile hide the fear and dread that took over her. “Now, go find Sally and bring her back
here. It’s almost time for the Fireside Chat.” The little girl nodded, scampering off as the radio’s
music faded, the track ending that day’s cheerful music. The mother dried her hands on a towel,
twirling the cloth between her fingers, feeling the golden band on her finger spin as the cloth
whisked water droplets from her fingers. Quick steps brought her to the table, setting down the
towel next to the mail. She had to know for sure.

As the announcement that the President would begin shortly played over the radio, she
dug through the stack of bills, junk mail, and the paper. As silent static played in the interim, her
hands wrapped around the government-sealed paper. As the sound of a clearing throat played,
she opened it. Shaking hands read the words as the President began.

“My Fellow Americans:” He began, a confidant joy in his voice. “Over a year and a half
ago I said this to the Congress: ‘The militarists in Berlin, and Rome and Tokyo started this war,
but the massed angered forces of common humanity will finish it.’” She heard none of it as she
read. Sally, the poor girl, entered the room with a worried look as the mother sunk to her knees,
weeping. The older daughter approached her mother slowly at first, trying her best to read the
paper in her hand before hugging the older woman fiercely, her young arms wrapping around
the older woman like an old blanket, doing her best to offer some comfort. The girl’s eyes drifted
back down to the paper, her quiet tears blurring the words as she read them.

Mrs. Sarah Brown,

The Secretary of War deeply regrets to inform you that your husband Private
Daniel Brown was killed in action in performance of his duty and in service to his country on 10
July 43. Regret that unavoidable circumstances made necessary the unusual lapse in reporting
your husband’s death to your confirming letter follows=
General Dwight D. Eisenhower.