Dear John(67)

By early afternoon, we were getting ready to head back, but we were assaulted by heavy fire coming from a building up the street. Pinned against a wall, we were in a precarious position. Two men covered while I led the rest of my squad through the shooting gallery to a safer spot on the other side of the street; it struck me as almost miraculous that no one was killed. From there, we sank a thousand rounds into the enemy’s position, laying absolute waste to it. When I thought it was safe, we began our approach to the building, moving cautiously. I used a grenade to blast open the front door. I led my men to the door and poked my head in. Smoke was heavy, and sulfur hung in the air. The interior was destroyed, but at least one Iraqi soldier had survived, and as soon as we were close, he began shooting from the crawl space beneath the floor. Tony got clipped in the hand, and the rest of us responded with hundreds of rounds. The sound was so loud that I couldn’t hear myself screaming, but I kept my finger squeezed, aiming everywhere from the floor to the walls to the ceiling. Chips of plaster and brick and wood were flying as the interior was decimated. When we finally stopped firing, I was sure that no one could have survived, but I threw another grenade into an opening that led to the crawl space just to make sure, and we braced outside for the explosion.

After twenty minutes of the most intense experience of my life, the street was quiet, except for the ringing in my ears and the sounds of my men as they puked or cussed or rehashed the experience. I wrapped Tony’s hand, and when I thought everyone was ready, we began backing out the way we’d come. In time, we made our way to the railroad station, which our troops had secured, and we collapsed. That night, we received our first batch of mail in almost six weeks.

In the mail, there were six letters from my father. But from Savannah there was only one, and in the dim light, I began to read.


Dear John,

I’m writing this letter at the kitchen table, and I’m struggling because I don’t know how to say what I’m about to tell you. Part of me wishes that you were here with me so I could do this in person, but we both know that’s impossible. So here I am, groping for words with tears on my cheeks and hoping that you’ll somehow forgive me for what I’m about to write.

I know this is a terrible time for you. I try not to think about the war, but I can’t escape the images, and I’m scared all the time. I watch the news and scour newspapers, knowing you’re in the midst of all of it, trying to find out where you are and what you’re going through. I pray every night that you’ll make it home safely, and I always will. You and I shared something wonderful, and I never want you to forget that. Nor do I want you to believe that you didn’t mean as much to me as I did to you. You’re rare and beautiful, John. I fell in love with you, but more than that, meeting you made me realize what true love really means. For the past two and a half years, I’ve been staring at every full moon and remembering everything we’ve been through together. I remember how talking to you that first night felt like coming home, and I remember the night we made love. I’ll always be glad that you and I shared ourselves like that. To me, it means that our souls will be linked together forever.

There’s so much more, too. When I close my eyes, I see your face; when I walk, it’s almost as if I can feel your hand in mine. Those things are still real to me, but where they once brought comfort, now they leave me with an ache. I understood your reason for staying in the army, and I respected your decision. I still do, but we both know our relationship changed after that. We changed, and in your heart, I think you realized it, too. Maybe the time apart was too much, maybe it was just our different worlds. I don’t know. Every time we fought I hated myself for it. Somehow, even though we still loved each other, we lost that magical bond that kept us together.

I know that sounds like an excuse, but please believe me when I say that I didn’t mean to fall in love with someone else. If I don’t really understand how it happened, how can you? I don’t expect you to, but because of all we’ve been through, I just can’t continue lying to you. Lying would diminish everything we’ve shared, and I don’t want to do that, even though I know you will feel betrayed.

I’ll understand if you never want to talk to me again, just as I’ll understand if you tell me that you hate me. Part of me hates me, too. Writing this letter forces me to acknowledge that, and when I look in the mirror, I know I’m looking at someone who isn’t sure she deserves to be loved at all. I mean that.

Even though you may not want to hear it, I want you to know that you’ll always be a part of me. In our time together, you claimed a special place in my heart, one I’ll carry with me forever and that no one can ever replace. You’re a hero and a gentleman, you’re kind and honest, but more than that, you’re the first man I ever truly loved. And no matter what the future brings, you always will be, and I know that my life is better for it.