Meet our writers

Win $1,000







Reflections June 2016

As I See It

Letter Of Love

By Fern Smith-Brown

And so, the letter of love, written so many years ago, that was now fragile from the years of savoring its gentle words, was taken to the funeral parlor and placed in the breast pocket of the father's suit coat. It lay — as it should — against his heart, there to remain for all eternity, thus sealing a bond that had begun so many years ago.

This story could, no doubt, be told a thousand times throughout the years — and such letters are even now being penned by children to daddies far away from them in strange countries like Iraq and Afghanistan. But it was, in fact, WWII and the year was 1944, a time when families were torn apart as war raged across Europe.

A soldier sat in the icy, dank stillness of a foxhole. Cold and weary, his heart ached for his wife and small children back home. Their sweet voices filled his mind, echoing round the earthy confines, as his thoughts dwelt on them once again. He leaned back shouldering his rifle. He twisted to reach the wallet in his hip pocket. From it, he withdrew a small scrap of paper.

Written in a childish scrawl, he read the letter telling him of his little daughter's love and how much she missed him. She was in the first grade now and the paper revealed that she could write her numbers. They were scrawled in a lopsided angle among the words of endearment.

Such a brief little note, but it said so much. It filled the empty void that prodded at his subconscious relentlessly. In some strange and oft felt way, it spread a warmth through heart and soul and helped him through the trying days and weeks that would grow into months and years.

He had read that little letter of love so often that it had become fragile. He pressed his lips to the labored, scrawling print of his youngest daughter and gently replaced it in his wallet.

He leaned back once again, feeling an aura of his family permeating the foxhole, tenaciously pushing away the oppressive gloom.

The war finally ended and the soldier returned to his family. But, throughout the years that tiny scrap of paper remained in his wallet.

The soldier, husband, daddy died 20 years later.

The note was removed once again from his wallet and given to the husband of the little girl. But the husband (a career soldier himself) felt a deep understanding for that intangible thread that bound that letter from a little girl to her daddy. He knew it had somehow helped a lonely GI through difficult war-shattered days. And he felt like an outsider prying into a beautiful, deep relationship that existed between father and daughter. Though appreciative of the gift, he felt he should not keep it.

"It belongs to him," he said quietly and decisively.

And so, the letter of love, written so many years ago, that was now fragile from the years of savoring its gentle words, was taken to the funeral parlor and placed in the breast pocket of the father's suit coat. It lay — as it should — against his heart, there to remain for all eternity, thus sealing a bond that had begun so many years ago.

And yet another Memorial Day is here and will soon pass into yesterday. And I remember that letter. And I remember him — again and again. I love you, Daddy, and I STILL miss you.

On Memorial Day, I remember every man in uniform who has given so much to keep our country free and to protect us from the evils of the world. Noted poet, Ben Burroughs', eloquent poem held many truths: "...The man who goes to battle is the keeper of our town." We are a grateful nation to one and all who have served.

 

Meet Fern