It was twenty-two months that my father was gone for his stint in the Navy - 1943 to 1945 in the South Pacific. He was seventeen; he had to have his father sign his enlistment papers for him, and when he finally shipped out, he ended up on an island somewhere in the South Pacific. It took him a month to finally know the actual name of the island...my mother, his girl back home, never knew.
But she wrote him everyday. Often he would write her when the opportunity arose or they were ordered to do so. My sisters and I had their letters, many of the lines blacked out by the military censors. The paper seemed old to us, but the message was as clear as today with my daughter and her husband who will be shipping out at the end of this month for a year with his Army unit: they loved each other. We lost those letters from mildew.
I think they're both beginning to anticipate being apart - hiding it through their courage and the usual responses that couples are supposed to give people when asked if they're alright. But there will be an absence. My daughter and my mother spoke last week about what will soon be a shared experience between generations of women who have given up those whom they love in order for them to serve their country. I don't know the worry that my mother must have felt when for twenty-two months she had no idea how her boyfriend was doing; I do know that my mother never lost faith that he would be back.
I'm glad that my daughter knows where her husband will be going and that she will be able to communicate with him just about everyday - there is a bright blossom in the garden of technology - but I know that like my mother her nights will seem a bit empty...until like a lone car driving towards her on a highway, the sound of his approach will be ever increasing. Good luck C; we love you and will miss you.
No comments:
Post a Comment