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WAR LETTERS
by Susan Scott

This piece is a poignant look at one couple's experience with war and how, even after many years, the memories invade at any given moment, becoming a touchstone of sorts.

Twelve years ago I sat on my bed, listening to Peter Jennings discuss the war in the Persian Gulf in his dry, slightly detached, slightly hoping for some big news to happen voice; and wondered how he could be so calm. I cried constantly, and wrote ten letters a day to the love of my life, who wrote me back with horror stories of flies trying to suck moisture from his eyes, and stinging sandstorms and stinging scorpions.

I wrote how lonely it was over here without Walt, and he wrote how long and frightening the nights were, when they were on continual watch and when bombs and artillery exploded so close he heard them whistle by.

I preserved a red maple leaf in wax paper that October, so he'd have some bright color in the desert wash, and Walt sent a letter about a dream he'd had of me — in graphic detail that made my heart pound.

I slept with Walt's picture under my pillow — a wide-eyed boy with camouflaged face and clothes. He said they didn't bother with paint over there, they hardly got to bathe.

Walt sent his last requests, asking me to swear that if he didn't make it home alive, would I please take care of his dog — since he thought his mom wouldn't. I wrote back, giving an angry promise, and telling him he'd better get back here in one piece because the dog wouldn't love me the way it did him.

And Walt did.

And now, twelve years later as I sit on my bed, listening to Peter Jennings report on the war in the Persian Gulf — I have to wonder, where did Walt go?

Is he remembering his time overseas, and the letters, sometimes not coming for days, then arriving in bunches of fifteen or twenty? Does he recall the bittersweet way we wrote of life? Scrawled pages with doodled borders; gritty, smeared, filled with a rainbow of emotions.

Is Walt sitting on a bed somewhere in the great existence beyond my sphere and listening to Peter Jennings, being thankful that his fighting days are past, but smiling at the memory of the letters?

Copyright 2003 by Susan Scott

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