About A Soldier

Part 4/10

The Past

He knows he shouldn't be here. The chances of him being caught are very high; the dogs are out of the house tonight. Still, it's been so long since he's seen them…

He's positioned himself near an old oak tree by the house, and from his vantage point he can see through the window in the kitchen. They're all there: his mother, father, little sister and his brother.

The last time he saw them, his brother was but an infant. He's nearing his fourth birthday now. Jasper watches through the window as they all sit for dinner, his father saying grace and his mother constantly repositioning the silverware for the empty placesetting at the table.

"I wish you wouldn't put that out," he hears his father say. "He isn't coming back, darlin', he's dead."

"Don't," she replies meekly. "You don't know that, they never found his body."

"The chances of –"

"Let's not do this in front of the children."

Jasper lowers his gaze to the ground. He'd never heard them argue before. As far as he knew, they'd never even been slightly unhappy with each other. Now, though…

His father won't even look at her; his gaze is fixed on his plate. His brother and sister poke their food with their forks and his mother – his dear, sickly looking mother – simply covers her face with her hands.

"Don't do that, woman!"

Tighting his grip on one of the branches, Jasper felt a low rumble in his chest. Never has he heard his father speak to his mother that way, and he doesn't like it.

She stands, throwing her napkin on the table. "Fine," she says. "Just because you don't miss him doesn't mean we have to pretend he never existed."

She doesn't give him a chance to reply before she stomps around the table and bursts through the front door of the house. Once outside, she wraps her arms around herself and, (in attempt to keep some of her dignity, Jasper thinks) lifts her chin a little higher.

She moves a few steps towards the tree, and it takes every ounce of willpower that Jasper has not to go running to her. I want to go home, he thinks.

As though she heard him – had he spoken outloud? – she looked up, sniffling and squinting into the darkness. "Where are you?" she wondered aloud, her voice trembling.

Here.

She shakes her head. "Your son is dead," she tells herself in a cold voice. "He's long gone."

I'm here.

Then, she takes a few more steps towards the tree and, stopping short in her tracks, she drops to her knees and she cries. It's loud to him, louder than it truly is. It's painful and he wants to go to her, grab her by the arms and stand her up again. This isn't his mother; his mother is a strong, opinionated woman who holds the fear of half the men in town.

This woman he sees now is broken to bits and pieces. He tries to comfort her the only way he knows how, with his newfound gift. It is, he thinks, the only time it's truly been put to good use.

She stays on the ground, but her weeping quietens. She wipes her face with the back of her hand and looks skyward. "You take care of my boy," she says to the stars. "I know he's up there."

I'm far, far from there.

Another, single sob escapes her and he tries desperately to calm her some more. It doesn't work. Still, he remains there, sending out wave after wave of tranquility and peace and love until it exhausts him.

In the end, she still weeps.

"I love you," she whispers, and it's barely audible to him. "And I'm sorry."

He reaches out to her, physically, as though if he tried hard enough he could actually feel her warmth from his safe place in the tree.

"Don't cry, mama," he says, though she has no hope of ever hearing it. "I'm right here."