Story: Letters From War
Rating: T-M, it'll vary. M rating for violence, mature situations, and language.
Chapter 1: Back To It
~She walked to the mailbox
On that bright summer's day
Found a letter from her son
In a war far away
He spoke of the weather
And good friends that he'd made
Said I'd been thinking 'bout dad
And the life that he had
That's why I'm here today
And at the end he said
You are what I'm fighting for
It was the first of his letters from war~
It was a warm afternoon, Emily walking out to the mailbox and trimming a few of the flowers along the way. The new neighbor waved as he watered the rose bushes his wife had put in a few days ago and she returned the gesture with a smile before turning and flipping down the lid.
A few catalogs and flyers for get rich quick schemes made up the bulk of the delivery, but a small letter tucked away snagged her attention. Seeing his familiar handwriting she gasped and clutched it to her chest, all but running into the house. Slamming the door behind her she tossed the rest of the mail, now forgotten, onto the kitchen table as she tore open the envelope and began reading.
'I know I promised I'd write more...and I'm sorry mom. But, I made it. I know you weren't too thrilled about me going back, and while I do realize that you're my mother and will worry anyway...don't.
Our deployment hasn't been that hard - at least not as hard as the first time over here. I suppose it has a lot to do with the fact that I'm not a FNG any longer (FNG being freaking new guy...kinda). It's hot as hell...way hotter than L.A., but I'm in good hands here with my recon team. We've got a good group of guys and while I'm excited that I finally get to be the one to throw around orders and make FNG's do push-ups whenever I want, I can't. These guys are all on their second tour, they know what to do even before I tell them. No FNG's on my recon team at all.
Takes all the fun out of it, but at least I know that I can trust the man to my left or right with my life.
I can't help but think about dad while I'm over here and yes - I carry his Purple Heart in my vest when I go out. He might be why I'm here today, but you're what I'm fighting for.
Stay safe, okay? Happy Fourth of July! I hope this letter gets to you before the holiday. If not, happy LATE Fourth. You can write me using the address on the envelope, just know that the mail service sucks out here.
I love you,
Michael'
She wiped at the tears wetting her cheeks and smiled, pulling out the picture he'd sent along. He stood in the middle with what she assumed was his team. Each soldier had their sleeves rolled up and were flexing their muscles, some of the boys there scrawnier than she could ever imagine, their eyes blacked out by sunglasses.
Searching for a frame she finally stumbled across one with a picture of little Michael in his fourth grade play about eating healthy. Replacing the picture with the crinkled one in her hand she set it up on the mantle next to an older, faded photograph of her husband in much the same pose - standing side by side with the men of his platoon in the green jungles of Vietnam.
Collecting a pen and a piece of paper she sat and began to write her son a reply, but could think of none other than "I'm proud of you".
'Michael,
You are good, and you are brave! You'll be such a good father some day, son. I know your dad would be as proud of you as I am. Make it home...make it home safely.
I love you,
Mom'
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