The Price

I just. . . wanted him to come home.

The iris was purple, the petals fanning out and looking as though they were just waiting to fall. I held it carefully in my hands, kneeling on the side of my grassy hill. I hadn't been here in a long time, ever since he was called away, ever since he'd put on that uniform, I hadn't wanted to come back. I didn't think I wanted to see this place anymore.

Which was silly. I'd never had him come with me to this place. This place was mine. My eyes stung, the tiny prickles threatening to restart the waterworks, but I didn't let it. I was done crying. It didn't even take any effort to hold the tears in anymore. Why hadn't I brought him here? I could imagine what would have happened. What I would have said. I would have explained everything. I would have told him what had happened and then he wouldn't have left. If he'd known. . .he wouldn't have just left. He would have stayed.

That's what I told myself anyway.

The flower twirled slowly in my hands. I wanted to throw it, tear it to shreds. I didn't know if I could stand looking at it anymore. I didn't want to think about what it meant. I didn't want to think about. . . about. . .

My breathing shook, my eyes clouding over. NO. I wasn't going to cry. I'd cried too many times already. It didn't do anything. There was no point in crying when no one was there to comfort me. Then it was just worthless tears. They were all worthless. WORTHLESS.

I took a deep breath, calming down. I was being silly. I knew the consequences of him leaving. I knew that. . . I knew he wasn't coming back. I should. . . I should. . . I sighed, putting the flower down softly in the long grass. I stood up, walking to the top, where a little garden bravely fought against the weeds. I pushed them aside, using my fingers and nails to dig a small hole. Leaning back to pick up the flower, I stuck the stem firmly into the ground, moving the dirt back to keep it firm. If all went well, the flower would grow a root and maybe then my special place would be covered with them. Covered with little irises. Wouldn't that be nice? I smiled, scrubbing at my eyes a little. Smearing mud on my face.

It was chilly, the wind scraping across the grass like an icy breath. I put my hands in my jacket pockets, forgetting why I hadn't done so before. The little folded piece of paper crinkled in my fingers. My breath sucked in, freezing my chest. But like always, I pulled it out, smoothing the wrinkles and peering at the too tidy print. It was such a little letter. Shouldn't little letters be unimportant? It should be the long letters I'm afraid of, not short ones. But that wasn't the way reality worked. That wasn't the way my world worked.

Dear Mrs. Gunther,

Your husband was a brave man. He died a hero. You should be proud. He served his country well, and we will all miss him. His donation to our cause has made a difference and we hope that this knowledge will help you through this difficult time. Please accept our deepest condolences.

I should be proud.

My husband died and I should be proud. My hands shook, my shoulders trembled. I didn't want to move, didn't want to keep drawing breath. One hand gently cradled my growing belly, the slight kick sending a tremor of pain through me.

My husband died a hero? That's wonderful. But now he would never live to be a father.

I just. . . wanted him to come home.