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November 30, 1947
Dear Gene,
How’ve you been? I hope that you’ve managed to fix that leak in your roof. It’s gonna be cold out soon and I hate to think of you repairing it in the cold. I don’t know how it is there but it’s sure getting real cold here. Found myself shivering last night while visiting Bill and Fran, can you believe that? After all we’ve been through? Bill laughed at me, but what does he know? Fran just bought him a new winter coat. I ain’t got enough money for that kind of thing– I’m going on a trip.
And before you ask me where I’m going, I don’t know either. I only decided on it last week. Felt like I couldn’t stay here any longer, you know about it. It just doesn't feel right to be here anymore. Not that home is bad or nothing like that, but it just ain’t the same as before. I still find it hard not to think about where I’ve been. Two years ago, I was squatting in a soggy foxhole with my best pal and the best medic in the regiment. Now I’m here. It still doesn’t make sense to me how I can be here instead of waking up to the ground exploding and trees shattering around me. I don’t get it.
My ma doesn’t get it either. I’ve seen the way she looks at me now, like she still can’t believe I’m really here. She looks at me like she expects me to be gone the next day. Part of me thinks that’s why I’ve stayed so long, I don’t wanna break her heart when I leave again.
Bill used to tell me that things’ll get better with time, and I’ve given it time– two years of it. But I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m supposed to be somewhere else. I don’t sleep so good in my own bed, and I never feel the peace that everyone tells me I deserve. But I figured that it’s no one’s business but my own, you know?
But then Bill asked whether I was happy here, and I gave the same old answer. Sure I’m happy. I’m home. Bill just looked at me for a long time, doing the thing where he stares at you silently. Kinda like how you used to look at me last time, back when we were in Eindhoven. But this is Bill, and Bill ain’t someone who’d stare at you like that without saying anything.
When he finally spoke, he told me that I should go. I didn’t get it at first, it even upset me. But he said that it was obvious I wasn’t happy here. He said I looked like I was still waiting for something bad to happen, like I was waiting to get the news, you know? He said that it might do me some good to visit the other guys too, and then I got it.
We spoke about it for a bit, guys I could meet again, and I thought it was a pretty good idea. I gave Joe Toye a call the next morning. He sounded happy to hear from me and asked if Bill was coming along. Bill yelled into the phone just to hear Joe grumble in his old usual way, although he sounded happy to hear Bill’s voice. We’re driving down to meet him in three days and I feel like I’m on the verge of a great adventure.
I know what you’re gonna ask: I quit my job at the distillery too. But don’t worry about me, I’ve been saving up some money. If I don’t do anything stupid, I won’t need to hitchhike my way across the country.
The hardest part of it all was telling my ma that I was leaving again. She looked like she’d been expecting it, but it didn’t make it any easier. She said she wished I could’ve waited for spring to come, but I think she knew that I couldn’t. My bags are packed, and while I’m sad to say goodbye to everyone, part of me looks forward to leaving. Maybe I’ll regret this in a few days, but right now all I can think about is how nice it’ll be to finally be somewhere else.
That’s all for now. I’ll write when I can.
Babe
December 8, 1947
Dear Gene,
It’s way past midnight and I’m sitting in Joe’s guest room writing this letter. The room’s too small for me and Bill, so Bill insisted I take it. He says that he’s seen me sleep and he doesn’t wanna get kicked off the bed in the middle of the night. He’s a liar, because we’ve slept in the same foxhole many times and he ain’t ever complained once about it before. But that’s how we worked out the sleeping arrangements, and it’s better that I don’t fight it too much. You know how Bill is. He’s too nice to say it plainly, but I wish he would sometimes.
How’re you? I hope you’ve received my last letter, but I know how the mail gets at this time of the year. In case you haven’t, you’ll be happy to know that now I’m a tourist in my own country. I’m at Joe Toye’s with Bill. We arrived yesterday evening and I’ve never seen Bill happier to see Joe, not even when Joe went AWOL to come back in the Bois Jacques. Joe grinned at us for a long time too, until Bill slapped his back too hard and asked for a tour of the house.
Joe says hi, by the way. He’s been good, and says thanks for all your help patching him up. He says you’re more than welcome to come by anytime while looking at Bill in a way like it was the opposite for him, but Bill laughed it off and clapped him on the back again. I don’t think Joe minds it as much as he pretends to.
Bill also asks when you’re coming up to visit him so he can properly thank you for saving his life in that goddamned forest. I think he misses you even though he won’t say it.
Joe asked how long we’d be staying. I don’t think he was eager to get rid of us, but maybe that’s changed after how we got after a few drinks in the night. I’m kidding. We’re good guests. But I still don’t know how long I’ll be here. Hell, I don’t even know where I’m going next. Maybe I should’ve taken a day or two to plan my trip and make a few calls. Guess now I know what I should do next time.
I must have fallen asleep during our last round of drinks because I woke up tucked in this guest bed. At first I didn’t know why I woke up, but then I realized it was because I’d stupidly drank too much and fell asleep before emptying any of it. Tried to go back to sleep but I couldn’t ignore it anymore, so I went out.
I was expecting it to be dark outside, but I saw Bill and Joe talking in the living room. And I know you’d disapprove of it, but their conversation was so quiet that I got curious, because it wasn’t like any conversation we’ve had before, with the three of us. I couldn’t help it, I had to look. So I snuck behind the wall and looked.
Bill and Joe weren’t smiling or laughing, just talking softly. It looked like the kind of conversations I have with Bill sometimes, when it’s pretty late at night and there’s no one else but us. And I was gonna walk into the room and join them, but then it hit me that this wasn’t a conversation that had space for me. Just like those times with me and Bill, this one was between Bill and Joe, and no one else.
So I went back to my room and thought about it for a while. Then I realized that this is the kind of conversation you have with people who understand you differently. Bill and I are best friends, sure, but what he has with Joe is something else.
And suddenly I thought about that night in Haguenau when Jackson died. I remember sitting on an empty wooden box watching the clouds go between that yellow moon. I couldn’t light a smoke because my lucky strikes were wet from falling into the river. I was so frustrated that night, that lousy patrol and Jackson getting it and my stupid cigarettes dripping with water. I was about to throw them into the river when you found me.
I remember how you walked out of the dark like a ghost. I thought I was seeing things, but then I heard your footsteps. You’re the only one in the company who walks like that, all quiet and careful, like you were always in a minefield. You sat next to me, on the other broken box that looked like it would collapse, and took out your pack of smokes and offered me a stick. You even lit it for me.
I don’t know how you found me that night, but I’ll be honest with you Gene, if it were anyone else I’d tell them to take a hike. Instead we spent the night finishing your smokes. We didn’t say anything that night but I went to sleep feeling a little better. Maybe it was the cigarettes, or maybe it was your company. I don’t know. But maybe that’s how it is with Bill and Joe, and you and I. I guess some people make you feel better just by being there. Isn’t that something?
It’s getting colder here but it hasn’t started snowing heavily yet. Small wins, huh? I’ve only packed one heavy coat for winter and I’m hoping that it doesn’t snow too much because what am I gonna do when I have to wash that coat? It’s no longer acceptable to wear the same coat for months without washing like in the army, and I ain’t got enough money to buy one without busting my budget for my round-the-states trip. But don’t worry about me, I’ll be okay. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt from my time in the army it’s how to make do. I’m sure you know it too, I think we all do.
I’m sleepy now, so I’ll stop here. I’m not sure where we’ll be going next, but I remember Joe saying that Major Winters had written to him recently. Think I’ll bring it up tomorrow.
Babe
December 28, 1947
Dear Gene,
Merry Christmas! Sorry I didn’t write earlier. I’ve been busy, weirdly enough. Bill, Joe and I made it to Major Winters’s house safe and sound despite several accidents that threatened to overturn our (or Fran’s) little car. But don’t worry about it because we’re here now, although we had to change a tire and none of us were good at it. Who knew those things were so fragile, huh?
It’s been four days since we arrived. The house is small and homely and feels like it’s been here for ages although it looks new. There’s a nice garden in Winters’s backyard that’s bigger than my room at home, but most of it is covered with tarp now that it’s snowing (does it snow in Louisiana?). It’s like powdered sugar all over the roads and roofs, and it’s real pretty. It sparkles when the sun shines like we sprinkled glitter all over the place, I wish you could see it.
Winters was more than happy to see us. He came up to give each of us a big hug, and suddenly it felt like we’ve never been away. He talks to you like you’ve only been gone a day, and I’m almost ashamed to say that it’s been easier to be with him than it is to be with my own family. I think part of it is the worry that never goes away, that my family will find out that I’m no longer the same Babe that left that rainy morning five years ago. And I think it worries me that they’ll be disappointed with the person who came back. Maybe that’s why it’s easier to be with the guys. They’ve been there, and I don’t need to explain anything to anyone. They just know.
We had a surprise visitor last night too. Or rather, Joe, Bill and I had a surprise because Winters looked like he’d been expecting it. Cpt. Nixon, Lt. Welsh and his wife, Kitty, came to visit too. I also found out that Welsh lived in Pennsylvania too. I told Bill I never knew and he looked at me like I was an idiot. He gave me shit for it too, because “everyone knows”. Did you know? I hope I’m not the only one who didn’t.
Kitty’s a real lady if I ever met one. She’s pretty and lovely but she nearly broke my fingers when we shook hands. She speaks to Winters and Nixon like they’re long time friends, and she tells jokes that make Joe and Bill laugh. She reminds me of Fran in some ways, and I guess Bill must have thought the same because Bill said he should’ve asked Fran to join us. Winters said there was always next year, so I think this might become an annual gathering. I don’t know why we haven’t had a reunion yet. Maybe I’ll suggest it to the guys later on.
But if it happens again next year, you should definitely join us. I know you’d have fun, even though you’d just eat the food and watch everyone else get drunk like you did that night we were celebrating the end of the war.
We spent the Christmas weekend cooking and eating and drinking, just shooting the shit. We talked about the rest of the guys too, mostly about where they were and what they were doing, if they were married or not. News must travel far, because almost everybody knows something about everybody else. We tried tracing the common point where everyone’s information came from and discovered that it was Luz. Then we called Luz using Winters’s telephone, and it was like being back in Europe with everyone again. It was some of the best fun I’ve had in awhile, and I wondered if you’d had similar moments since coming back home.
For some reason, Winters asked me about you. I asked him why he was asking me, I thought he’d have heard about you from Luz or someone else. He looked at me strangely. I think he was confused by my question, because he asked me who else he would ask about you. Well, I don’t really know what he meant, because I’m sure that I’m not the only person you’ve been keeping in contact with, but I told him about you anyway. Said that you’re a mechanic now, and that you’ve been doing a little woodworking too.
He also asked if you’ve met anyone, and I said no, I don’t think so. I mean you never mentioned anyone in your letters so I figured you didn’t. So I told him that I don’t think you had, because if you did, you’d tell me about it right? And you never said anything.. But if I’m wrong… then you’d have to introduce us. I’d want to meet the gal who stole my buddy’s heart, see if she’s good enough for you. Tell her how lucky she is and warn her not to break the heart of the best guy I know.
Nixon says he’ll be going back to New York in a couple of days, and asked if I’d like to hitch a ride with him. I accepted of course, but Bill and Joe declined. Bill wants to get back to Fran and Joe says that he actually has a job he needs to return to. Bill argued that he had one too, and the whole argument about whether a salesman really counted as having a job came up again. Winters pointed out that Webster lived in New York too, and if I did meet him, I could send his regards. I don’t think it leaves me much of a choice, but I wouldn’t mind seeing Webster again. I’ll be sure to give him a call the first thing in the morning, before the lines get jammed.
In the meantime, Winters, Welsh and Nixon say hi. Joe says hi again, and Bill asks why you haven’t answered his invitation yet. I told him that there was no way for you to reply when we were constantly moving around and he called me a smartass for my troubles. You don’t have a phone line either. Why don’t you get one? It’d be hell of a lot easier to talk to you if you did.. just something to consider.
Babe
January 9, 1948
Dear Gene,
Happy new year! I can’t believe I forgot to write you a letter to wish you earlier. It’s been pretty hectic saying goodbye to everyone. Bill told me not to accept rides from strangers (like I don’t know it) and to ring him if I ever needed anything. I told him that he already said this millions of times, but he gave me this stare that meant he wasn’t joking. I wasn’t either when I said I would. And that was that.
Nixon’s car is fancy. I don’t know the brand, but he says it’s one of the newer models that’s supposed to go much faster. I don’t know if it’s the car or the driver, but I thought I saw the pearly gates open a few times on that ride. You’d think I experienced all kinds of fear back in the war, but I gotta tell you Gene, Nixon puts the fear of God in you when he opens his flask for a sip while speeding down the interstate. He says it’s the car, but when you’re swerving from side to side I don’t think it’s the engine anymore. When I told him to slow down, he told me he hoped I had insurance. I never prayed harder than I did on that car ride.
New York City is crowded, although it ain’t as bad as London was back in the war. The buildings are taller and the roads are busier. It seems like the kind of place where you gotta know what you wanna do and see or you’d be lost. Luckily, Nixon was showing me around the neighborhood and bringing me to places where tourists would never know to go.
I managed to arrange a meeting with Webster, who said he was free for two days before he had to get back to school for the spring semester. He’s gone back to Harvard to finish his degree in Literature. It made me think about my own studies, and whether I should go back and finish high school. But I don’t think it really matters now. I’ve gotten jobs without it, and I don’t know what high school can teach me that I haven’t learnt from the war. Webster says it’s different, and I’m sure he knows better. I just don’t know if I care enough to sit in a classroom all day anymore.
In one of the strangest conversations we had, we were sitting in a cafe a couple blocks from Nixon’s apartment. It was crowded and noisy when we got there. Thankfully, Webster was already seated by the window waiting for us so finding a seat wasn’t a problem. It was nice and warm inside and the coffee was great, best I’ve had since we came back stateside (don’t tell my ma I said that).
Webster said it was a pity that I didn’t visit during Christmas, because New York “has some of the best Christmas decorations.” He also mentioned that I could’ve caught Liebgott if I had been here earlier. Liebgott was visiting for a week before he had to go back to his job in San Francisco. I said I didn’t know that they kept in touch, they never seemed too friendly with each other back in Europe. I never knew they were such good friends.
I must have said something wrong, because Webster got all quiet. Not that he was all that talkative to begin with, but he picked up his cup and looked down like he was deep in thought. I didn’t think I said anything offensive. But gee, Gene, you should’ve been there. It was like I kicked his dog or something.
But then Webster put his cup down and looked at me like he was also surprised, and he told me that he didn’t think they would either. But it was only after the war had ended that he discovered how important some people were to him. That confused me because I thought we were talking about Liebgott. And suddenly he’s talking about the war ending and finding out that some people meant a lot more than you ever thought they did? I think he was referring to Liebgott, but they weren’t close in the first place. Why would he find out that Liebgott was important to him only after the war ended? Why would you keep in contact with someone who you were never close with anyway? I don’t get it.
But before I had the chance to ask what he meant, Nixon pulled out his flask and poured some into his cup. Then he raised the flask to his lips and said he’d drink to that. Webster raised his own cup in a toast and the conversation was over.
I’d be lying if I said I understand it now. I did some thinking and there’s one more thing that I don’t get: how there could be important things or people that we never realized during the war? Wasn’t that all we thought about in those days? If it wasn’t something you thought about then, why would you ever think about it after the war? It seemed like he was replying to my comment about his friendship with Liebgott, but it also seemed like we were having different conversations.
I still don’t get it, but I’d hate to spoil the mood again by asking. Maybe you’d get it. If you do, I wouldn’t mind reading about it. You could call me too, although I don’t know if I’ll still be in New York by the time you read this letter.
Anyway, I’ve gotta be up early because Nixon is bringing me around the more “touristy parts of the city.” Says that Winters would “never let him hear the end of it” if he didn’t. I think we might be going to the Empire State Building and see a show on Broadway.
Babe
January 15, 1948
Dear Gene,
I realized that I never told you where I was going next. I’m currently on a train to Massachusetts to visit Luz. Nixon helped book a seat for me, seeing as I don’t have a car and all. He said that Luz would pick me up from the train station and warned me not to stray too far away, in case I get lost. I think he was only half-joking when he said that.
The train is packed. Everyone’s going home after the holiday. There’s a girl sitting in front of me with her hair in a thin blue cloth. It made me think about the time that you bandaged my hand in a similar blue cloth back in Bastogne. I never got to thank you for it (even though you caused the wound in the first place) so I suppose now’s as good a time as any. Thanks a lot for that, Gene. You’ll be happy to know that the scar’s almost faded by now.
The train’s started moving. I’ll write again if I don't get lost.
Babe
January 26, 1948
Dear Gene,
It’s goddamn cold in Massachusetts. My fingers are stiff so this letter’s gonna be messier than the rest. Luz says the heater hasn’t been good in months but he’s gotten used to the cold. He’s a crazy fool for that, risking frostbite over here.
Don’t worry about me though. It’s cold but at least here there’s a roof over my head, dry blankets and socks, and hot food, courtesy of Luz. He says to tell him if there’s anything else he can do to make the cold more bearable, but the moment that I mention the heater he just laughs it off.
It’s nice to see Luz again. He’s working as a mechanic now, same as you. I asked why he hasn’t fixed his heater yet, being a mechanic and all. He just waved me off and told me that there was more to life than fixing a heater. I don’t think there’s gonna be more to my life if he doesn’t get around to fixing it soon.
I’ve been here a week, and it’s been nice. Luz’s brought me round the neighborhood and introduced me to the crowd of children and grannies that babysit them, and I’ve been helping them with some stuff ever since. Mostly I help them to carry the heavy things they buy, groceries or other things like paint. It’s nothing exciting, but it gives me something to do, and I like talking to them. They ask about things like where I came from and where I plan to go next, and it keeps me thinking about other things.
There was only once when an old lady asked me how I met Luz. She asked me like she already knew the answer. When I told her that I met him in the war, she looked at me with more pity than I could stand. She looked at me the way my ma did when I came back home, all silent like I couldn’t hear the things that they wanted to say but never did.
The funny thing about my stay here is that that was the first time I mentioned the war. I didn’t talk about it when I got here. He never brought it up either. Maybe he didn’t wanna upset me or anything, since he knows I’ve been having nightmares again. Or maybe we were doing that thing people do, when they avoid talking about something out of politeness when it’s really all they wanna talk about.
Either way, we finally talked about the war two days ago when we went for a walk down the river. It was cold and dark, and there weren’t many people around so the whole place felt lonely. It was quiet too, real quiet. Something about the weather must have reminded us of Bastogne, because suddenly we were talking about it, feeling the cold in your bones and that blasted fog.
We talked about a lot of things and people we remembered from the war. I told him that story of Hinkle again (from that time Spina and I went looking for 3rd battalion for medical supplies, remember that?) and he imitated Lt. Dike telling him and Lip that he was gonna get help. We had a good laugh about it until Luz said that they should still be here today, Muck, Penkala, Hoobler, Webb, Julian..
It’s another funny thing, how fast those names brought us back to Bastogne. We’re back home now, warm and full with more sleep than we’ve ever had during the war, but it seems that the cold followed us back too.
Sometimes when I’m in bed at night, I think about the look in Julian’s eyes with bullets ricocheting all around that damned ground. I still see the blood on the snow reaching out to me. I’ve only talked about it once with Bill, after he was discharged from the hospital and we went to the bar for drinks. Bill told me it wasn’t my fault. Couldn’t have done anything for Julian. But sometimes when the cold creeps in through the thin walls at home I wonder how true that is.
Luz talked about you too, said that you saved many of us in Bastogne. He’s right, you know. You saved me. I know you’d tell me that’s your job or that we’re exaggerating, but it’s true. Just knowing that you were around gave me more comfort than you’d ever know. You saved me out there.
Sometimes the scar on my hand itches when it’s really cold at night. Like I said, it’s healed up nicely, no need to fuss about it. It’s probably just some subconscious memory thing or something. But it’s strange that of all the bad memories associated with it, the first thing that I think of is you fixing it up and calling me Babe for the first time. It still makes me smile when I think about it.
I hope that everything is well for you. I haven’t heard from you in a while but that’s fine, I just wanted to let you know that I’m okay.
Babe
February 15, 1948
Dear Gene,
I always start my letters asking about you, only to remember that I won’t be hearing from you until I’m back home. Anyway, how’re you? It’s been snowing heavily in Huntington, and I wonder how it’s like where you are.
I hope that you’ve been taking care of yourself because I remember hearing from Bill who heard from Luz who heard from Spina that you’d lost weight last winter. I never understood why you never said a thing in your letters. If you think that I’d worry about you, you’re goddamn right I would. But you should tell me anyway. I want to know. I don’t want to have to hear about it fourth-hand from Bill, who heard from Luz, who heard from Spina.
I’ve been doing well. I’m staying with Lip who makes sure that I eat three full meals a day. Cpt. Speirs was here when I arrived too. When I stepped into the house, he glanced at me and muttered something under his breath. It might have been hi, hello, or what the hell are you doing here? But he didn’t seem upset to see me, so it might have been closer to hello. Then again, he didn’t seem particularly pleased to see me either, so who really knows?
It was really awkward here at first. I’m no longer in the army, but it still feels like I gotta be on my best behavior around Speirs. I didn’t know how to act around him, although I don’t think he cared much about what I thought or did as long as I wasn’t disturbing him. For a long time, I tried to stay out of his way.
I’ve been wanting to ask Lip why Speirs is here. I assume that he must’ve some kinda reason for being here, seeing as it’s no longer the holiday season and all. But just the other day, when I woke up earlier than usual, I went to the kitchen hoping to fix myself some chow and saw Speirs and Lip making breakfast already. Lip was cracking the eggs while Speirs took out two cups, poured coffee into them, and handed it to Lip without saying anything. Just like that.
I don’t know why I’ve been thinking about it. It’s none of my business, but I can’t stop thinking about it. Kinda domestic, don’t you think? Being in the same kitchen making breakfast together. Found myself wondering if I could have something like that one day too. How nice would it be to wake up in the morning and share that first cup of coffee together with your special someone, huh?
Then I remembered that talk with Webster. Maybe this was what he meant, about discovering important things after the war (although I’m not sure how Liebgott fit into that topic). Anyway, this set me thinking about things that I’ve never thought about until now, and it’s put me in a bit of a mood.
See, back in the war when we were all talking about what we’d do after everything was over, everyone gave me hell for saying that I didn’t know what I’d do. But it was true. I thought I’d get my old job back, help out around the house. Thought about traveling around the states too. I just thought that things would go back to the way it was before I enlisted.
And now the war’s over and we’re back. I’ve got my old job back and managed to pitch in a little for my family’s bills. I’m even traveling around now, bumming off the goodwill of our friends. It should be enough. That's what I said I’d do, and I’m doing it.
But I don’t know why it just doesn’t feel like what I imagined it would. Maybe things have changed after all. Maybe I’ve changed too. Maybe what I wanted isn’t what I want anymore. But the thing is, I don’t know what I want either. All I know is that after seeing Lip and Speirs having that morning cup of joe together, Webster’s words are beginning to make some sense to me, and I don’t really like it. Because now I realize that I’m not very happy with where I am now. I should be happy. I’m here, I’m doing everything I planned. And yet I feel like there’s something else I’m missing– something important– but I don’t know what it is.
It must be the cold that’s messing me up. I haven’t been getting much sleep (but still more than you I think). I didn’t dream much before I went to war, but I’ve been dreaming lately. I dream all the time when I close my eyes, and when I do I see Julian lying on that road with his hands around his throat. But before I can grab him, Lip comes into the room to wake me, and again I leave Julian on the snow with blood spilling from his neck.
Lip never asks me about it, which makes me think he has them too– nightmares, I mean. But we never talk about it. One night I woke up from another one of those bad dreams, walked out of the room and saw Speirs sitting in the living room. He motioned for me to sit across from him, so I did. After a few minutes of silence he said, “Me too, kid.”
I never wondered whether Speirs had nightmares of his own. He doesn’t seem like someone who’d look back on the past. It only occurred to me then that maybe he was struggling with his own memories, too. And, weird as it sounds, I’d never felt closer to him than I did then.
We’re going to see Speirs off tomorrow morning. He’s going back to work (he won’t tell me what he’s doing exactly and I think it’s better this way) and Lip invited me to come along. I didn’t know how to say no with Speirs sitting at the same table, so I agreed. I hope it won’t be weird. I’ve been feeling like an intruder lately, especially since that morning. After that, I’m not really sure what I’ll be doing or where I’m gonna go. I think Lip mentioned that Shifty’s just over in Virginia, so I might pay him a visit.
Babe
February 24, 1948
Dear Gene,
It’s been three months since I left home. But I don’t think of it much, surprisingly. I sure as hell thought of home a lot more back in the war. Before I left last November, I thought I might’ve been homesick by January and gone home. It’s February now, and home is just a passing thought I have sometimes. I don’t think of my ma and pa and siblings as much as I should. I wonder if that makes me a bad son and brother. I still love them all very much, but I just don’t feel as attached to home as I was three years ago.
It’s also been three months since I’ve received a letter from you (a little more than that actually). I wonder if you’ve been writing replies to all my letters, and they’re all piling up at home. Or if you’ve been reading my letters and shaking your head at them. I don’t know what you think of them. I carry two letters from you in my bag. They’re in between my clothes, just in case the weather ruins them.
I don’t know why I threw them in when I packed. But I think maybe it was because I didn’t know how long I’d be going, and I didn’t wanna forget how you write. I read them a lot more than I wanna admit. Your ink is starting to fade, and there’s a little smudge where I spilled Shifty’s coffee at the corner where your name is. Now the paper’s creased and ugly, I’m sorry. I tried to straighten it out but only made it worse. At least now I know, huh? I promise to treat your letters better if you ever write to me again.
I’ve been staying in Shifty’s house for three days. It’s real pretty and peaceful. When I was young my ma read me a book, and on its cover was a drawing of a cottage in the woods, sun shining through the thick leaves and all. Shifty’s house reminds me of that– if you take away the forest and put a big lake at the back. It’s far from the next house and so quiet that when I sneezed I thought I might cause a landslide.
It’s late noon now. I’m in Shifty’s kitchen writing this letter. The entire house smells like lemon and butter because he’s baking a cake. There’s a window next to me, and when I look out I can see the backyard that’s covered in snow. It looks like icing sugar on a cake. It glistens when the clouds drift away, and it looks like a winter wonderland with the lake in the background.
It’s been nice being here. Shifty tells me stories about his fishing adventures with Skinny (who visits once a year in the summer) and I tell him stories about Bill and Joe and Luz who come to stay every few months. I think this is the most that we’ve ever talked and it’s been pleasant so far. Shifty sends his regards and tells you that you’re most welcome to visit him (he says it’s the least he can do after everything you did for us).
You should visit him. This is one of the most perfect places I’ve ever seen. It’s like Berchtesgaden, but even better because there’s no need to report for duty anymore, no practice drills and no waiting for news about war in the Pacific.
Being here reminds me of that day at the lake. I still remember it clearly, how Winters issued McClung and I a surprise 24 hour pass and we missed the train going to town. I don’t know why we ended up at the lake that afternoon, but I remember your surprise when we found you sitting with your feet in the water. I felt bad because I thought we had intruded, but then you smiled at me and asked why we were still wearing our jackets when the sun was out.
You never joined us in the water. I can still see you with your face to the sky and your eyes closed, feet swinging lightly in the lake. You looked so peaceful that I didn’t wanna disturb you, but then you asked if I was planning on closing my mouth anytime soon and kicked some water into my face. I still don’t know how you knew I was looking at you, but it’s one of those things you mysteriously seem to know.
Recently I’ve been thinking about those days again. I wonder if I miss them. Not the war I mean, but those times that I spent with the guys and you. It’s funny because I don’t remember spending that much time with you, but whenever I think about those days again, you always seem to be in them, whether you’re talking to me or taking care of the rest. Even now I still feel like you’re just around the corner, waiting for me with a smoke in one hand and a lighter in the other. Then I remember that we’re back home now, and you’re all the way in Louisiana.
I think about that day a lot over here. Sometimes I try to imagine how it’ll be like if you visited. I try to imagine how the lake would look in the summer, when Shifty and Skinny’s fishing and the grass is green again. You’d sit on the edge of the boardwalk swinging your feet, watching them quietly, and I’d be swimming in the lake. And you’d kick water in my face again, just like old times. It would be like that day again, except that the war would really be over this time.
But I gotta be honest with you, Gene. It’s perfect, but sometimes it gets too quiet here, and when my nightmares come they’re louder than usual. I keep expecting to wake up hungry and cold somewhere in Europe, because how can I really be here?
Right now I’m sitting in the corner of this lovely kitchen writing you this letter. I should be happy, but I’m not. Maybe it’s because of all the sad things I’ve been thinking about. I think about home and how it doesn’t feel much like home anymore. I think about Julian a lot too. In my dreams he’s still struggling on that road staring at me. I lie to him that it’ll be okay, and that we’re coming back for him. I think about the moment that I ran away and I wonder how he felt.
I think about where I am now. I’ve been going from place to place and it feels like I can’t sleep anymore. All I do is wait for the sun to rise while I watch shadows on the walls. I can’t sit still. I always feel like I need to keep moving, but I don’t know where. All I know is that I can’t keep running. There’s gonna be a day that I’ll need to go home, and when that day comes I don’t know what I’m gonna do, Gene.
Shifty’s taking the cake out of the oven now. It smells like heaven and looks even better. I wish you were here to share it. I know you’d love it.
Babe
March 1, 1948
Dear Gene,
How’re you? It’s already March. It’s hard to believe how fast time flies when you’re busy traveling from one place to another. I feel like a nomad, and I’ve been living like one for about three months.
I’m currently staying in a bed and breakfast for a few days before visiting Perconte in Illinois next week. The bed and breakfast is run by an old lady whose late husband served in the Great War. It’s a nice place a few miles from Indianapolis, and the best part is the big discount she gives me in exchange for helping her fix her car. I’m no mechanic, but I can read instructions from a book just fine. I think you’d be proud of my work.
I was listening to the radio while fixing up her car this afternoon, same as always, when Lili Marlene came on. You know, Gene, I never thought I’d hear this song again after the war. It always seemed like it would be left behind with everything else in Europe. Don’t know why it shocked me so much to hear it again, but it did.
I thought about you and that night in the church, after the attack on Foy. Do you remember that night, when you were taking care of Perconte and that hole in his ass and I came to find you because I was bored? You were listening to the radio that night, with Perconte sleeping just a few feet away. I sat next to you and you offered me a smoke, even though we were in a church. I told you that we shouldn’t be smoking in a church, and you asked if that meant I didn’t want it. It’s a good thing my ma wasn’t there to see it, I can only imagine what she’d do to me.
And then Lili Marlene came on the radio, and you closed your eyes and hummed along like I wasn’t there. Bill told me that some German prisoner in Normandy explained the lyrics to him. He said it was about a soldier’s girl, how they kissed and separated when he went to war. I wondered if you were thinking of someone when the song was playing. I wondered if you had a girl waiting on you back home.
When the song ended, you finally looked at me and asked if I had a sweetheart waiting for me back home. I said no. And I remember wanting to ask you too, but then you asked if I knew how to sing the song. The only German I knew was from the book of phrases they gave us, and I don’t think you’d get girls by asking them to surrender quickly. That made you laugh, I remember that too. It was the first time I made you laugh. I was really proud of myself for that.
I remember how you spent the night trying to teach me how to sing the song. I told you how stupid you sounded trying to speak in German and asked if that was why you didn’t sing it earlier. Then I tried to sing it myself and sounded even worse than you. It was so awful Perconte even woke up to tell me to shut up. But I made you laugh all night, and that was worth the stink eye Perconte gave me before he was driven to the aid station the next morning.
I didn’t sing Lili Marlene when it played on the radio this afternoon. It seems I’ve wasted your efforts because I still don’t know the lyrics. So I closed my eyes and hummed the song, just like you did. For a while, it felt like you were just next to me, except that my voice ain’t half as low as yours is. But it still felt nice. It made me less lonely until the song ended. I think I get it now, why people get nostalgic when some songs come on the radio. It brings them back to happy moments, even if the days weren’t always better.
I don’t have much to tell you. I just thought about you when Lili Marlene came on the radio this afternoon, and I wanted to write you to let you know. Maybe it’s silly, but it felt important to me.
I still don’t sleep well at night, but I don’t think there’s anything that I can do, or anyone can do. It seems like it’s one of those things that will get better with time, but I can’t help thinking how much more time will it take?
This winter seems to be longer than most I’ve had. The nights are longer and colder, and it makes me think of the war again. It makes me lonely too, when I think of everyone else and spend my days alone. Maybe that’s why I’m always trying to visit the guys, so that I don’t have time to think about how lonely I’ve been. But if I’m being honest with you, Gene, I think I’ve been somewhat lonely ever since we came back. Not alone, just lonely.
Sometimes I wish that you were here. I wish that I could give you a call. I wish I could hear you laugh at something I said again.. I’d even take hearing you call me Heffron or Edward again.
Babe
March 11, 1948
Dear Gene,
I’m writing this letter in a nice little diner in town. I’m staying with Perconte and his house is a short five minute drive away, but I prefer to walk. It’s near dinner time and the very nice lady has poured me another cup of joe, even though it’s my fourth for the day.
There aren’t many people here now, but it was packed when I was here with Perconte yesterday. Perconte says it’s a popular hang out for all the kids these days. I was gonna tell him that we aren’t much older than them. Can’t be more than four years, I don’t think. But we both know that’s not what matters. What matters is that we went to war and came back with souls much older than they should be.
I look at those laughing kids and wonder how I’d be like if I never enlisted. Maybe I would have still been young. Maybe I would have been happy too. I don’t regret any of it, not really, but I wonder if I regret not knowing who I could have been in another time.
I still don’t sleep so well. Perconte sleeps much better than any of us I’ve seen, including Shifty. Only thing is he’s still a light sleeper. I don’t make much noise when I sit outside past midnight, but Perconte comes and joins me with some whiskey. The watches he collected in Normandy are framed on the wall across the sofa, next to all the medals and ribbons (also in a nice frame). He told me stories about the jump into Normandy and training in Toccoa, how things were like under Sobel. He also told me about the army noodles with ketchup that everyone threw up while running up Currahee. I wondered if you threw up too.
Anyway, how are you? I feel silly for asking this in every letter I write. It's not likely that I’ll hear from you soon, but I still do it anyway. It makes me feel better if I do. It makes it feel like we’re having a conversation when it’s just me talking, wondering if you’re reading every letter I post or if it ends up lost somewhere.
I’m desperate to hear from you. Maybe that’s why I write all these letters and talk about everything, hoping to hit something that’ll get me a reply. I used to want to hear directly from you, but now I’ll take anything I can get. I go to everyone’s house and ask about you. I feel ridiculous and stupid for it, and I get strange stares too. People ask me why I’m asking them. I should be the one to know, shouldn’t I? But I don’t.
It would be nice to hear from you again. I won’t lie, Gene, I miss hearing from you. Sometimes when I write these letters, I imagine what kind of face you’re making, or what you’d say to me if I were next to you. I always wonder how you’d read my letters. Sometimes I think that you’d tear open the envelope on your front porch and read them standing up. Other times I think that you’d keep them on your table until you have time at night to shake your head and roll your eyes at them.
I hope I ain’t disturbing you with my letters. I’m starting to worry that I am. It just makes me feel better to write these, knowing (hoping) that they’ll reach you someday. I think there’s some kind of calming effect in it. It’s like those chocolates that you gave me back in the war.
You know, the funny thing is that I never really liked chocolates. They were fine, but I wasn’t crazy for them. I always traded mine for lucky strikes. And then Julian got it. Couldn’t have been more than five feet away, but I still couldn’t pull him out of there. We retreated and everyone said that there was nothing we could do for him, but I spent all night thinking about whether I could’ve grabbed him. I spent all night thinking about that promise I made to him and how the krauts would’ve stripped him bare.
I never spoke much to you before that night, when you jumped into the foxhole and squeezed yourself next to me. I definitely didn’t wanna talk at all that night. But you broke a piece of chocolate for me and made me eat it and suddenly all I wanted to do was to talk about it. Didn’t change anything but it made me feel better.
Maybe that’s where it all started, you giving me some chocolate and listening to me talk about things I was angry or sad about. You were there in Bastogne and Haguenau, in Kaufering and the rest of the nights that I was sad about. Always with that chocolate in your hand and that silence everyone knew you for. I don’t know how you even managed to scrounge them when those rear echelon bastards kept stealing all the good stuff from our rations. But you always had a bar on you, and I remember how happy it made you whenever I ate them.
You were there that last night too, the one before we arrived back home in the Brooklyn naval shipyard. I remember sitting portside next to the rail, about to puke when you came and sat next to me. And then I really puked into the sea when you took out that bar of chocolate, just like the fella next to me who had been at it since I climbed up to the deck.
I don’t know why you still broke some chocolate for me even after that. I don’t know why I ate it either. Maybe it was because it was the last night before we arrived home, and I knew there weren’t gonna be many times like that anymore. If I did, I don’t think I was thinking about it like I am now. All I remember thinking was how sad you looked while smiling at me like that, the sea spraying against our faces and your eyes drooping.
And I remember the way you said that you’d miss this, saddest I’d ever seen you. And I wanted to cheer you up, so I said, what? The puke? I guess it worked because you rolled your eyes and sighed like you always did and said, “No, Heffron, being with you.”
I never expected you to say something like that. I mean, I said it to some of the guys too. Same words and all. But I knew that you never said it before to the rest of the guys, not that I ever saw you, and I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. Then you took out a smoke and offered me a stick that I accepted, and the moment was over.
We unloaded the next day and went back to camp. You reported back to the medical battalion, and I never saw you again. I exchanged my rifle for my discharge papers and took a train back to Philly, and the last image of you I ever had was the way you smiled at me on that ship, water spraying in our faces and that sad look in your eyes before we lit our lucky strikes.
I never mentioned this to anyone– not even to Bill– but I wish I said something that night. I wish I told you the truth, that I was gonna miss you too, taking care of me and being the only one who insists on calling me Edward or Heffron. I never told anyone, not even you (until now) that you’re why I bring a Hershey’s bar everywhere I go. When I feel nervous or restless I break a piece to eat, just like you did for me. It calms me, and I think it’s because I am reminded of you. I think of those moments with you every time I eat a piece. I’ve been eating Hershey's bars faster than I can smoke a pack. It always surprises me how fast I go through them.
In a roundabout way, I guess what I want to say is that I miss you, Gene. And I’m sorry I never said anything then. I wonder if you were embarrassed saying that, ‘cause now that I’m confessing this (even if it’s in a letter) I realize how embarrassing it is. I don’t know if I’ll regret writing all this tomorrow when my mind isn’t so foggy from all the caffeine and sugar. Guess I’d better post this letter before tomorrow then.
I’m a mess. I don’t sleep well and when I do, I dream of Julian and that horrible gurgling sound. I want to go home but I don’t think that’s where I really wanna go. Problem is that I don’t know where I wanna go either. Just not home. But I don’t wanna be here either. So where do I go from here, huh?
I wish that you’d buy a phone so I could call you instead. You’d know what to say. My pens are running out of ink because I keep rewriting these letters, only to send the first one I write. I also think that hearing your voice would be nice. The rest of the guys would be able to call you easily too. Sounds like a good deal to me, I don’t know why you don’t do it already.
And sorry about the handwriting too. Like I said, it’s my fourth cup of coffee. My legs are jumpy too. I should get back to Perconte’s house for dinner. He promised to cook real spaghetti for me. I don’t know what that means but anything’s better than K rations.
Babe
March 18, 1948
Dear Gene,
I’ve been staring at your letter for a long time. I don’t know how long it’s been, but it feels like it could be forever. It’s all wet and the ink has smudged into something unreadable. Some drunk asshole in the bar fell onto the table and spilled his beer everywhere. I know I promised to take better care of your letters, but I keep breaking that promise.
Your letter is all ruined, and I should just throw it away. There’s no point bringing it around anymore. But I can’t bring myself to do that. This was the letter you told me I was free to stay with you for as long as I wanted. I’ve read this letter dozens, maybe hundreds of times. I’ve memorized it by heart by now. But now that your ink’s no longer readable it feels like the offer’s no longer on the table. And I’ve never known where I was gonna go, but now it feels like I no longer have anywhere to go.
I think about what Louisiana is like a lot. I think about what you look like now, if your hair’s grown out or if you’ve gained some weight. I think about the people who’ve met you since we came back, if they know how lucky they are.
I think I miss you a lot, Gene, and I don’t know what to do.
Babe
April 2, 1948
Gene:
I hope you don’t mind if I sound crazy and out of my mind. My leg’s jumping and my heart’s beating harder than it has in years and my mind feels jumbled up, but I’ve never been clearer about everything. I finally figured it out, what I’ve been missing since we came back. I used to think it was because of the war. Well, it is, but not entirely.
See, I was finding my way to Bull’s place this morning when I decided to take a rest in the park. And while I was resting on the bench I saw an old couple strolling by, holding onto each other’s hands. I know it’s rude to stare, but I couldn't stop. And the longer I looked, the more I wondered about how long they’d met, how long they’d been together, how long they’d been in love. I’ve seen so many couples in my life. Hell, I’ve been in a few myself. But the more I stared, the more I thought that I wanted something like that too.
And, just like that, all of a sudden I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I thought about how nice it’d be to wake up next to the person you love, bad breath and all. I thought about how nice it’d be to come home after work and hug that special person. I thought about how nice it’d be to be able to sit down quietly with them and do nothing all day. Maybe smoke and drink a little with them on long nights or doze off with them on warm afternoons.
I thought about you. I thought about that night in Haguenau, sitting with you in silence and the butt of our sticks glowing orange and that bright, yellow moon hanging in the sky. I thought about that day when you opened an eye to smile at me before kicking water into my eyes. I thought about that night in Foy when I was all tired and cold, smoking with you in a church and doing some of the worst singing I ever did in my life for some laughs. I thought about that evening on the ship back home, when you smiled sadly at me with the water spraying against our faces. I thought about that time you held my hand while fixing it, that first time you called me Babe.
These memories still give me a lot of comfort, and I used to think that’s because they were special moments. Only that it’s taken me a long time to figure that they weren’t particularly special at all. They weren’t special because they were rare occasions or a once in a lifetime event (that party the company had on May 8th was one of the best I had, but I don’t think too much about it now). They weren’t special because every single one of them was happy. Some of those days were the saddest I ever had, some of those days I wish never happened at all. And then I realized: they were special because you were there.
And suddenly everything made sense, why all the places I’ve been and conversations I’ve had all reminded me of you. All this time, it was never about where I went or who I was with. It was about who I wasn’t with. I can see now that in every letter I’ve written to you, all I’ve ever wanted was to be with you again. I want to have moments like that again, and I want to keep having them. For the rest of my life, for as long as you’ll let me stay in your life.
My palms are sweating now. I’m afraid it’ll ruin the letter. I’m even more afraid of what you’ll think about this letter. I’m taking the first train to Louisiana tomorrow, and maybe my letter won’t reach you before I do. Part of me hopes it does, so that if you decide that this is not what you want, you can tell me to get lost before I have to explain everything to you, and I’ll do that. But the other part of me hopes it doesn’t, because that means that I’ll see you sooner.
But in case this letter finds you before I do, and if there’s any chance that you might want the same things that I do (and I’m desperately praying that you do).. I want you to know that I’ve missed you more than I can say, and I can’t wait to see you again.
Yours,
Babe
It’s getting warmer and more humid again. Spring is here. Eugene doesn’t mind it so much, it’s a welcome change from the heavy rains of winter. He only wishes that mosquitoes didn’t come with it.
Eugene’s waiting for the butter to melt when he turns to the fridge and takes another look at the letter stuck onto the top. He’s already memorized it, word for word, but he likes looking at it anyway. The messy loops in the ‘o’s and the uneven spaces between the words tell him that the letter was written in a hurry, excitable fingers trying to keep the pen steady while the writer’s mind raced miles ahead.
It’s been a day since he found the letter in his mailbox, which must mean that Babe’s been finding his way here for a few days. Eugene taps on the letter with his knuckle, wondering with an abundance of fondness if Babe had gotten lost somewhere in Louisiana, if he was sweating buckets trying to adjust to the onslaught of heat and the slog through the humid air.
Maybe there’s something in the mail for him today.
Another wave of heat discourages him as he steps outside. It’s one of those days where the sky is clear save for the few clouds that cling on stubbornly, refusing to move, refusing to let go. It’s nice that one of these clouds lies just above Eugene’s house, covering the short stretch of houses lined along the lane. It means that Eugene doesn’t have to shield his eyes with a hand or lower his head as he walks towards the mailbox.
He’s about to unlock his mailbox when he hears faded footsteps, an uneven gait telling of someone who isn’t familiar with the area. They halt abruptly a distance away, but Eugene doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is, because there’s only so many people who would travel all the way to a little known street in Bayou Chene.
But he turns around anyway, because Eugene’s been waiting for that person for years.
There’s no forgetting that silhouette, or that messy mop of hair that’s matted to his forehead with sweat, or those inquiring eyes with so many expressions flickering in them that Eugene doesn’t know which is dominant. Happiness, relief, fear– it’s the last one that Eugene picks out among the rest, the reason why that man’s standing still instead of closing the gap between them.
Distantly, Eugene remembers the little letter hanging on his fridge, the one with the unanswered question.
Babe’s still waiting for Eugene’s answer.
Eugene’s shoulders relax, an exasperated smile splitting his face in half. “You come all the way here just to stand there like that?” he chuckles, waving Babe forward. “Come ‘ere.”
It takes another second for Babe to take a hesitant step, as if he wasn’t sure if Eugene was sure. And Eugene’s usually a very patient man, but years of waiting has trimmed off the last of it. Instead of waiting for Babe to come to him, Eugene walks across the road until he’s near enough to see Babe’s watery smile, on the verge of tears.
“Babe,” Eugene says simply.
“Gene,” Babe says back, voice cracking. Eugene’s smile softens as he steps forward, gently pulling Babe forward into a hug. When they’re this close, chest to chest, Eugene can feel Babe’s heartbeat matching his, almost as if they were on the same metronome. This alone makes Eugene smile harder, but when Babe brings up his own arms to tighten the hug, Eugene wonders if there is a limit to how much happiness a smile can express. He thinks there must be one, because how can what he’s feeling now ever be expressed in words, in one single expression?
They stay like that for a long moment, both soaking in the moment. With his feet planted on the ground again and Babe burying his face into his shoulder, Eugene can feel the yoke of his shirt growing damp. Hesitantly, Eugene raises his hand to card his fingers through Babe’s hair, letting his fingertips graze Babe’s nape.
“I guess I won’t be needing my telephone anymore,” Eugene says casually, tracing down the strong lines of Babe’s back.
“Gene,” Babe snorts, “you don’t have a telephone.”
“I didn’t,” Eugene agrees, “but I do now.”
Babe stiffens before pulling away, just enough to narrow his eyes in scrutiny at Eugene. But Eugene shrugs, nonchalant. “See, there’s this guy I met in the army, gave me a lot of shit about not having a phone. So I bought one yesterday, got a line and everything.”
Babe stares at him, face unmoving but for the light back and forth of his eyes, searching Eugene’s with the hunger of a starving man. He sucks in his lower lip before releasing it in a shaky chuckle. “Sounds like this guy’s been waiting a long time for you to do it.”
“Maybe.” Eugene nods, uneven smile pushing up one of his cheeks. “Thought I might surprise him, too. I was gonna call my buddy, Spina, to tell our other buddy, Luz, to tell our other buddy, Bill, to tell–”
Babe bumps his forehead against Eugene’s. “You’re a fucking wiseass, you know that?” Babe fumes half-heartedly. “Unbelievable.”
Eugene only throws back his head in soft laughter that releases all the anxiety Babe never realized he was carrying, and all at once his body is lighter and something inside of him flutters back to life again.
The sun twinkles in Eugene’s eyes as it curves into thinner crescents. As Eugene leans forward again, fingers ghosting up the back of Babe’s head to card through his slightly sweaty hair, he sighs, content.
“But this is better. Much better.”
The wind whistles as it slithers through the trees, and the sun peeks out from a moving cloud. It beams down at Babe as a watery smile emerges across his face, out of the wave of emotions washing through his head.
The cloud clutching onto the sky above them decides it’s time to move on. It slips across slowly, trying to catch a final glimpse of them before it's off on its next great adventure.
April 14, 1948
Dear Heffron,
I’m sorry I haven’t replied to your letters. By the time I’d received them, I wasn’t sure if you were still there and I didn’t want them to be left in places you weren’t visiting again soon. I thought about calling Spina to pass the news to Luz and Bill, but I didn’t want the whole company to know about what I had to say. But now that I know where you are (and where you’ll be for the foreseeable future) I can finally return your letters.
In one of the last letters you wrote, you wondered how I read your letters. I read them all the time. I read them in the morning when I open the letter box, and I read them before I sleep. I read them on the weekends after I’ve put up my laundry, and I read them when I wake up from my own nightmares. I’m ashamed by how weathered they are now, but at least I no longer have to read them over and over again now that you’re finally here.
As I write this, you are next to me, sound asleep. Four days have passed since you came back to me, but it’s still hard to believe that you’re here. It feels like a dream that will disappear if I reach out and touch you, so I try not to, although that is an even harder task to do. Your hair is messy and it tickles my nose when we go to sleep, and your snoring wakes me up in the morning. But this is the first morning that you’ve snored, and the first night in three that you haven’t struggled out of a bad dream. That’s good. I don’t mind waking up slightly earlier than usual if that means you get to sleep through the night.
For the first time in three years, I’ve been able to sleep well too. The bed is warmer now, and the house isn’t so quiet anymore. This spring is different from all the ones before. Now that you’re finally here, the cold is finally drifting away. I’m hopeful and happy, and I’m looking forward to spending the rest of my life with you.
Yours,
Eugene