Top of the World (War romance story)

Chapter One

Abigail

Piedmont, Missouri - Saturday, May 13th, 1939

 I hadn't been to the creek in years.

Its familiarity was a distant memory, reaching far back into the archive of my mind. I remembered its shady spots under spacious trees, and tall grass and marsh around the southern banks. The ripple of the small rapids had once been a comfort, now, something I never wanted to see again.

Summers were spent there long ago. Back when Adam still lived at home, and was just beginning to date his current fiancée, Ava. The family would pick a shaded spot and spread an old, weathered blanket down on a portion of dry ground, and enjoy a picnic lunch graciously packed by our beloved maid, Dottie. We'd talk and laugh, often swapping jokes passed down from my grandfather, Samuel. He was a jolly man, much like my father, but passed away before I had the opportunity to meet him.

I'd look around, basking in the light and free airiness that surrounded me. My father would smile widely under a neatly trimmed handlebar mustache, and my mother would sit with her ankles crossed, constantly straightening out the creases in her neatly pressed dress. My brothers would toss the old pig skin around then strip down into their underclothes and hop in the creek. Usually, I'd stay on the banks and watch, allowing the sun to crisp my porcelain skin. Occasionally I'd join as they'd wade in the rapids, wearing nothing but a dress slip. As I grew older, and my body became more shapely, my mother forbade me from wearing it while swimming.

Even so, as those memories came to a close, like the setting of the sun, or the ending of a novel, I'd still reminisce on happier times, yearning for their return. But as my mind attempted to wrap around the bleak fact that my brother was gone, it'd cause crippling pain to sear through me; physically, mentally, and emotionally.

--

It was early summer now. The cicadas were beginning to sing, with their songs swelling in the humid twilight air. The breeze began to blow warmer, and the creeks and swimming holes were occupied by many children, all in need of cooling off, and relief from the hot Missouri sun. In past summers, when the falls and the creek didn't appeal to us much, we'd resort to swimming in the pond. But after the accident, it was drained, almost immediately, and filled to the brim with dirt and rock. Now it was like that pond never existed. The murky water was replaced by new lush, green grass, and a small memorial was set in Abraham's memory, marked by a white, wooden cross, with his name painted across in black.

In June, it'll three years since we lost him. Roughly a month left until the most atrocious day of my life came around.

Three years, and I still wasn't over it.

My parents never thought I'd move on. Loss is hard, and as my father said, it hit some of us harder than others. As for me, I guess I can say I never fully recovered. The wounds were still deep, raw, and tender to the touch. I cried over it a lot, mostly silently as I curled up in a ball in my usual nook on the front porch, staring off into the street as happier people strolled by.

I knew people in town talked about it. It made the papers. Front headline, actually. With a town barely exceeding fifteen-hundred residents, news was scarce. Juicy, hard-hitting news was even more scarce.

People from town gave their condolences. It was so easy for them to tenderly pat me on the shoulder, look me in the eye, and choke out a faint "I'm sorry", but that didn't ease the pain, nor did it make the situation any less horrific. I'd nod in a silent reply, forcefully giving a small smile in appreciation, and they'd move on, leaving the situation behind.

Times like these, when I was left alone to think, my mind wandered aimlessly, searching for something happier, something more merry and light, to ponder. Even the memories spent at the creek were tainted and bitter.