I didn't get any letters this time. Sometimes I wondered if I hurt his feelings with that last comment. Sometimes I wondered if it was true and I'd scared him off. Sometimes I remembered that kiss last Fourth of July.
Most of the time I just sat with Jim, wondering how old Mr. Jones was doing way over there. I hoped he was safe. But I wasn't worried. In a childish sort of way, I'd always thought he was invincible. Nothing was ever wrong in Mr. Jones' world.

Everything was fine. A bit lonelier, a bit emptier, but fine. Until one night at Jim's, when the postman came in and delivered to me a letter, so chillingly cold, not unlike one I'd known before:

September 15, 1948
To the family of Mr. Alfred F. Jones:

Out of the envelope fell his dog tags. I bent down shakily to pick them up, knowing what horrible news the letter beared. didn't want to read on. But I forced myself to.

It is of deepest regret that we inform you that Mr. Alfred F. Jones' plane crashed down on September 11. Upon searching of the wreckage we found him to be dead.
We are sorry for your loss.
-The United States Air Force

Trying to ignore the tears welling in my eyes, I numbly passed the letter over to Jim. I slid the dog tags around my neck then, feeling the cold in my warm hands, running my fingers over his name. I couldn't belive it. He was gone. He was really gone. Everything in me felt numb then. And I haven't taken those dog tags off since.
Maria was there that night too. I think she caught on to us, because she made Jim hand her the letter next.
I remember that night and still carry it with me, a cold stinging sort of feeling. I'd never seen the bar so empty though there were many people, so forlorn yet there were music and bright lights. Maria sat at the bar crying, as Jim tried to console her broken heart and not cry himself, and I sat to the side, unsure of what to do with myself.
To distract myself from the heavy ache in my chest, I tried to assist Jim in his efforts. "Don't cry, Maria..." I patted her on the back comfortingly.
"How could I not cry?" she sobbed, blowing her nose on her little red handkerchief. "Why- I think I loved him,"
"I- I loved him too..." ...More than she'd know. I sat beside her, biting my lip to hold back tears of my own. "But-... I don't think he would have wanted us to cry."
She looked up at me with large, sad eyes. "Wh-What do you mean...?" Another small tear rolled down her cheek.
"He wouldn't want us to be sad because he died. He would have wanted us to be happy that he lived." I smiled at her. I thought I finally understood it all now.
She said nothing, and just nodded once before burying her head in her hands again. But she was quiet now, less shaking, no more sobbing, just- thinking. One of Mr. Jones' favorite songs played on the radio, quiet in the background, a solemn sort of reminder of the recent events. But I didn't find it saddening, why, in fact, I thought it quite inspiring.
"Cheer up, dear Maria, and come dance with me." I stood and held out my hand to her.
She gave me a pitious sort of look and forced herself to get up. I led her to the middle of the floor and waltzed her around the room, dancing and spinning and smiling at that silvery laugh of hers he always loved.
It's not like I didn't still feel his loss. Not like there wasn't a big heavy sort of feeling in the pit of my stomach. Not like it didn't ache, in every fiber of my being, to be back in the bar where we sat for years, smiling and dancing, now without him. But he wouldn't have wanted that. Dear Mr. Jones was always the positive in the life he lived and loved, and he was infectious with it to others. ...And as I would learn, throughout the difficult years to come, that he'd always had the right idea. And even though he was long lost and gone, I knew, he'd never leave me.

~The End~