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Written for sakru, as "Remembered Blessings," for Yuletide Madness 2008. Lightly revised in October 2023.
A Private Blessing
It was Saturday, so she had come to the graveyard with flowers. For this chilly late-February afternoon, she'd chosen snowdrops. Ilsa bent down and nestled the pot into a secure position against the stone.
"I miss you, my love," she whispered to the grave. The gray sky above her fit her mood.
She whispered the words in English, a language that she'd long since become used to speaking easily. She'd spoken it before the war, of course, and fluently, but it had still been a second language. She'd had to make a point of using when she spoke it, instead of the words coming from her without any thought at all.
After so many years in America, though, it had almost become her first language. She'd been told that her accent was barely noticeable anymore.
Ilsa sighed, easing her body back onto the bench as she felt the cold in every bone of her body. She was old. Her hair had faded to gray a long time ago, and the dream of returning to her beloved Europe had faded with it.
She and Victor had come here with cash, but no ongoing means of support. Although they had succeeded, it had been difficult to make a life in this new land. There had been a lot of hard work and no little amount of luck. They had never had the time or the money to go back to the place she'd once thought of as home.
Still, she counted her blessings every day. Were it not for luck, and an undeserved kindness, they might never have had any chance to make a life in America at all.
For most of those years in America, she'd had no idea what had ever happened to Rick, what he'd done after she had gone, whether he'd found another love.
At first, she'd avoided correspondence for fear of exposing either him or themselves. If evidence of their connection fell into unscrupulous hands, it could have meant disaster. After a while, she'd become so busy trying to build her new career and support Victor that time had simply slipped away from her.
She didn't admit it to herself until years after the War had ended. She'd never contacted Rick again simply because it would have been too painful. Until meeting him, she'd never believed that it was possible for a woman to love two men.
She'd loved Victor, with all his noble patriotism. She'd also loved Rick, with his different kind of nobility and, yes, patriotism.
A sudden gust of wind blew through, and she pulled her coat closer around her body. The snowdrops twisted against the wind. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if they would snap off or if the pot would tip over. But everything stayed in place.
She'd been lucky, she decided. Some women never got the chance to love even one great man.
Tomorrow, she would go to another graveyard, place another pot of flowers against another stone. She wouldn't be alone when she did; there were any number of friends, family and associates who would come with her to offer their support.
But today, Ilsa was alone. "Yes," she said out loud. "You were great. As great as the things you did for me and for others. I will never forget you."
It had been sheer chance that she'd seen the obituary, with its listing of where he lay. Or, perhaps, she thought, it had simply been yet another blessing. Her fingers traced Rick's name on the gravestone, remembering, while she whispered a prayer into the wind.