Echos of Valor, Whispers of Peace

As a kid you think you’re invincible, like nothing will ever touch you. I mean, you’ve seen the movies that start with the tragic beginning, right?

Those movies almost always bring me to tears.

If I’m being honest, all of those movies I’ve watched like that did nothing to prepare me for what happened yesterday.

But life isn’t a movie, is it? The tragedies aren’t neatly packaged between opening credits and a swelling score.

Sometimes, they just arrive on your doorstep.

.….

I had been playing with my son, whose now four when the doorbell rang.

Alex shot up from the floor and began to hop around excitedly. “Mama-it’s probably the mailman with another letter from papa!”

The mailman who’s been good friends with my husband before he’d gone into the military. He’s been hand delivering the letters my husband sends home.

He usually would knock though.

Alex grabs my wrist tugging me toward the door. “Come on, mama! Answer the door!”

I smile softly down at him then scoop him up to carry with me to the door. “We’ll go together.”

Collectively we both held our breath as I opened the door. I saw the man in his suit before Alex did-my heart leapt out my chest splattering to the ground.

The crisp dark navy fabric was immaculate, pressed to a razor’s edge. The gold buttons polished to a blinding sheen that nearly makes me shield my eyes. His back was ramrod straight, but there was a weariness to his expression, betraying the otherwise stoic expression he tried to project.

My eyes drop to the man’s outstretched hands.

There’s no way.

Carefully folded into a precise triangle was the American flag, the vibrant, red, white, and blue seem muted. I can see some of the medals glinting from beneath.

Alex shifted in my arms drawing the man’s attention to him. “What…that’s not a letter from papa.”

No, baby, it’s not. It’s the end of the letters. The end of everything.

His innocent confusion was a knife twisting in my heart. I squeezed him tighter, burying my face in his hair, attempting to shield him from the truth that was about to break him.

The man’s face softened and he looked away for a moment, as if steeling himself for what he had to do, before meeting my gaze with a sorrowful nod. “Mrs. Anderson?” He asked softly, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sergeant Miller. I….wish I were here under better circumstances.”

He glances back at Alex, compassion flickering across his face. “Can I come in for a moment? It’s….it’s about Sergeant Benjamin Anderson. He was killed in action on…..”

A shiver runs down my spine and Alex frowns slightly at the man his confusion palpable.

Alex tenses in my arms, his eyes round as he looks between me and the man. “Mama what’s wrong? You…look scared.” He wrapped his arms around my neck. “Mama….I want papa. Is papa ok?”

The world seemed to tilt, the colors fading to a dull grey. I can’t go dark, not now.

I have to be his anchor even as my own world crumbled around me.

“I know you do, love. I know.” I rub circles on his back trying my best to soothe him, but he seems to tense up even more under my touch.

He must sense something is off, that I’m not being forthcoming about what’s happening.

There’s no booklet for tragedies like this-how do you explain death to your four-year-old in a way that they’d understand?

How do I tell him?

How do I tell him his hero’s not coming home?

…..

My son comes into my room now, his brows furrowed with an envelope in his hand.

“Mama. Why didn’t we open the letter? It’s from papa.”

I look up from my laptop, my eyes stinging with the threat of tears, but I blink them away as I turned to face him.

Why didn’t I open it?

It was the last letter from him. Maybe I don’t think I’m strong enough to handle what he’s written.

Maybe I’m not ready.

Alex climbs into my lap holding the envelope under my nose. “Can we open it, mama? Please?”

I gently take the envelope from him and begin to open it, not having it in me to deny him this. Perhaps this is his way of coping with the sudden loss.

With the envelope now open I pull out the letter-the first line immediately makes me laugh and Alex bounces on my lap.

”What is it, mama? What?”

I smile as I read the letter aloud to Alex holding him close as he nuzzles against me to listen and read along. When I finished reading the letter I give it to Alex letting him hold it.

That’s when it dawned on me that grief wasn’t about forgetting, but remembering with love. And that love, like the letters would last forever.

Before my husband passed he’d been well-known in our neighborhood, and the word of his passing spread fast. Many of my neighbors brought food, gifts, and other things.

A couple weeks after his funeral I decided I was going to plant my husbands favorite tree in the backyard. The backyard that was usually so empty and daunting is now filled with neighbors who’ve come to help.

The mailman, Mr. Henderson, was rolling up his sleeves already digging the hole with practiced ease. Mrs. Davison from next door was arranging a plate of cookies, and the children with their faces smudged with dirt, chase each other around the edges of the yard; Alex among them.

The air buzzed with conversation. Laughter that was hesitant in the beginning grew louder and more confident, filling what was once the void of silence.

Once the tree had been planted we all stepped back to admire the tree. Alex had an arm wrapped around my leg smiling up at me.

Grief doesn’t have to be a journey to take alone. Alex and I were surrounded by love, support, and the shared memories of the father he lost and the husband I’ll never see again.

The tree wasn’t just for Alex and I, but all of us.