Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

I can’t say much in detail, in case this letter gets intercepted. I just don’t want you to worry; war is always dangerous, and today it just happens to be a bit more so. My unit’s training has been extensive; we’ve been preparing for this day a long time.

Yesterday, our commanding officer gave us a speech—the equivalent of a pep-talk before a game, but on a deeper level. I’ve told you he’s a serious soldier, who would die ten times for his country, and who expects us to feel likewise. Yesterday, I learned that no matter how strong the body may be, the heart cannot be trained to be strong. I’m not saying he snapped; he was austere and formal the whole way through. He was, however, very heartfelt. I wouldn’t have expected it from a man like him. Yeah, I think of him now as another human being, instead of a bronze statue come to life.

I don’t know if it was seeing this side of him, listening to my comrades talking about their families, or just the silence of midnight, but I felt I had to write to you, to tell you that everything’s going to be alright. It’s like I have an angel looking after me. Don’t worry about me, Dad; worry about Anna and Lily, who’ll be starting the new school year in a week; tell them I love them for me. Worry for Adam, and tell him I’ll be back to play basketball with him as soon as it’s finished—pass on my love to him, as well. I can’t explain why I feel so sure, but I know that whatever happens today, I’ll make it out, and I’ll come back home.

With love,

Cpl Francis C. Deluise

*

He looked over the paper after having read the letter; there were a few ragged holes in it, and places where the ink had run, possibly from rain, possibly from tears. The enclosed photo had names on the back; finally he had a face to put to the names of friends and comrades his son had mentioned in past letters, but his son’s own face was just out of the shot.

Looking up at the soldier who had delivered the message, he felt his own eyes begin to water. He was glad his daughters and other son were at school, so he would have time to deal with his grief before having to break the news to them.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Deluise.” the soldier who had delivered the message said. “He took it with him that morning, kept it close to heart.”

Those words made the ragged circular holes that aligned when the letter was folded all the more terrible.

“It was written over two weeks ago.” the soldier continues. “I found it after the fight was over, and kept it for when I’d be heading home on leave.”

The boy—boy indeed, only nineteen—lived just a few streets away, yet he had never met him before. Looking back at the photo, he identified the face as that of Cpl George McKenzie; his son had written of the younger soldier often, relaying many nights spent playing cards or fighting, under a starry sky or under fire.

“Thank you for bringing it to me, George,” he finally managed to choke out. “I’d been worried, when I heard about the attack…it lifts a bit of the burden to know for sure, but still…”

George closed his eyes; they had been close friends, and Francis’ death must have touched him just as deeply. “Good day, Mr. Deluise, and…I’m sorry.”

The young soldier left. The sound of the door closing behind him seemed to echo sadly through the empty house—empty of all life except for Francis’ heartbroken father.

He looked up to the ceiling, then down to the letter again. His eyes dwelt on the photo, and he closed his eyes. “Olivia,” he whispers the name. “My dearest…take care of him in heaven. Don’t let him stay a moment on his own. He is finally back with his family, after two years of war. He was only three when you left us; now you two can finally meet.”

His eyes flickered to the framed photo on the wall, of his long-dead wife. It had taken a decade for that wound to heal over; this one would take a little longer.

“One day at a time,” he whispered to himself, quoting a common phrase from his son’s many letters home. “Take it one day at a time.”