THE LETTER
It was the beginning of autumn when the letter came. I had the feeling he was anticipating it, and had intended to hide it from me. But he was at work when I received the letter from the mailbox, and he found me in a somber mood when he came home. He immediately understood the situation, and in the end, I was the one who was comforted.
We tried to forget about it at first. Or, at least, he tried to help me forget about it. He returned to his usual air, as a soft-spoken, creative thinker. But I knew very well that the contents of the letter would linger in the back of his head, and he knew me well enough to know that I couldn’t forget about the letter either. Yet, he carried on the masquerade for my sake. We kept going out for walks, cooking each other’s meals, and huddling by the fire in the evenings. Perhaps, out of subconscious awareness of what was to come, we spent more time together than before. They were sometimes bittersweet, staying up late into the night reminiscing about the old memories we’ve had together.
Eventually, I told him I was willing to talk about it if he was willing to. And, of course, he said he was. So we did just that. I was careful about where to begin, afraid to distress him and afraid I’d break down crying once again. Starting slow, I asked of what he knew about the conflict, having ignored every little bit of news about it before then. He, of course, made it very easy for me to open up to, discussing what he thought his role would be. Perhaps he would seek to join weapons research and avoid direct combat. Or he would be a doctor and aim to be stationed on the sidelines. Even as grown ups, he was still very skinny. We both were. And we both have the inkling, I think, even if we didn’t express it out loud, that he would not survive very long in direct conflict.
One day, I asked if he thought about running away. He stared beyond me for a while, then shook his head. He told me he didn’t want to do such a thing to me, and that there would be nowhere to run to; that our nation would soon invade the countries of refuge, at which point we would no longer be welcomed. There must be some hidden island we could escape to, I remember saying. Although he fancied my imagination, he admitted to the reality that, given the capabilities of our nation, any hidden island would be discovered at some point or another during the conflict.
As the day of his deployment drew near, when we weren’t talking to each other, he grew increasingly despondent, staring off into space for hours at a time. I grew desperate—ashamed there was no way I could help him. All of the support our love offered to each other, now was only a temporary relief; a way of escapism. Though, in our embraces, I clung on harder as he read to me his collection of stories by the fire, I felt increasingly distant, unable to live in the same realm he was in. Finally, one day, on the night before his departure, after we shared a bedtime story together, crouched under a blanket by the fireplace, I told him—I opened myself up to him. “Let’s make a child,” I said.
Surprised by my proposition, he did not immediately respond, and to prove I meant what I said, I repeated myself. I searched for a glimmer of joy in his eyes, however much muted it was with sorrow, but instead, for the first time, I saw in him the eyes of defeat; like a rodent trapped into a corner. He eventually opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything.
“I can handle it,” I told him. I was willing to endure the pain of labor. I was willing to raise the child until he comes back home. I was willing to endure anything over the prospect of having nothing to remember him by except my own memories and a few artifacts. He observed in silence, thinking over the multitude of reasonings I provided. As a final effort, I framed the child as his living legacy. “We were bound to have a child eventually,” I persuaded. “It may be our last chance.”
He sighed a perfectly quiet sigh and finally replied, “Ai, it isn’t just about me. Don’t feel like you need to put yourself through that just for me.”
I remember crying out, “It’s not just you. I wish for it too!” It felt selfish to say so, but I couldn’t think of a better way to put my feelings in that moment. “It would make me happy to make you happy!”
“It would make me sad to imagine having left you with a burden,” he countered.
“It would not be a burden! I will go work at the factory. I will make money to feed the child while supporting you overseas!”
“How can you be so sure of it when we’ve never experienced it before?”
“How can you be so resolute in the face of death?!” I began to cry, my voice shaking. “How do you find the strength?!”
He looked at me with grief. “No, Ai. I’m scared too. But for the sake of those around me, I must hide it.”
When I saw his expression, I could not hold back my emotions any longer and fell over him, sobbing. He had to catch me to prevent me from falling forward onto the hearth’s threshold. “I hate this world!” I cried. “Why did they have to choose you?! Why?! Why?!”
“Please don’t say that,” he murmured. “It pains me to hear you say that.”
I quieted to a whimper, but stayed in his arms. We sat together like this for a while. The fire’s crackle took back control of the space. Without lifting my head, I eventually said, “No, I’m not suicidal. I just hate it.”
He hugged me closer, “I’m glad to hear.” And we were silent once again.
After some time, he resumed with a promise. “When the war is over, I will come back, and then we can have a child. How about I use that as my motivation to survive?”
I stayed still, thinking it over, then lifted my head to face him. “I still don’t agree with it. But if it will be a construct to aid your survival, then I will tolerate it.”
He nodded, and said no more. The next morning, I watched him march with the other men as they paraded through the streets. Many people gathered to cheer for their success, like a cultural ritual, treating the soldiers as heroes departing to save our nation rather than men marching to their death. As much as I hated the ritual, I attended it to see his face one last time before they disappeared over the horizon.
End.