#182 Please Come Home

by Tina Culbertson

The rural town of Hosford Florida is roughly eight hours behind Kabul time, the difference of a workday. Nudging the screen door open, Megan gently carries her plate and coffee out on the porch, pulling her bathrobe around her shoulders. She does this every morning. As she picks at her breakfast, nibbling on a warm piece of toast, she imagines Jim enduring another MRE for his lunch meal. Sliding the envelope out of her robe pocket she stares at clouds rolling in silent ribbons, looking like dark waves across the morning sky.

“I will start every day with you,” she thinks as she brings his latest letter up to her nose and inhales deeply, hoping his scent is still lingering on the parchment. Maybe today there will be another letter. One more for her collection to read over and over until he comes home.

She imagines her body is a tapestry of memories threading through her, connecting with Jim in an ethereal way. Lately she feels the ache of his absence much sharper than the comforting memories of their former life.

The sun breaks through the clouds allowing a golden shaft to pierce the sun catcher twisting in the herb garden. Multicolored highlights emerge from the prism, raking their lawn with distorted tendrils of yellow and red, shimmering on the dew bent blades of grass.

Megan unfolds the crinkled letter reading what she can recite from memory.

All she ever thinks is, please come home.

2 comments:

Janel Gradowski said...

Beautiful imagery. Makes you wonder how many women spend their mornings in a similar way.

Pierce said...

Thank you, Janel. Having a family member serving in the Army inspired me.