Do the Stars Listen?

The cool breeze of a soft summer evening rustled the curtains of the kitchen window, revealing a sky painted a soft blue-black hue. The gentle wind flapped the lip of an envelope lying on the oak table. On the right corner of a card tucked into the envelope was inscribed "May 12 1943".

The details on that cardstock had sparked an argument between a woman and her husband. Her voice rose in agony and despair. His growled in frustration. That innocent card carried what she deemed his death sentence. He claimed it was his duty and honor.

It was an honor to serve, to fight the evil residing in Europe. She did not see it that way. She fought for their unity; her family was more important. She couldn't lose him, nor could their son. He couldn't say anything in return. In exasperation, he left, slamming the back door. The vibration of the door against the frame threatened to splinter the wood and crack the glass. She sank into a chair at the table, her elbows white from the pressure of her head in her hands.

Breakfast came and went. He did not return. Their little boy left for school, while the father's portion still lay cold on a porcelain plate. She picked it up and studied its contents─ scrambled eggs, bacon, and applesauce. She watched herself, as if in a trance, tip the plate. The food dribbled into the trash can. A rebellion. A small destructive action against the teachings of the American wartime spokespeople.

The father came home in the evening, after their son had returned from school. The tension poured like thick syrup over every inch of the small city dwelling. At dinner, the father couldn't eat. His throat tightened as he stared at the plate he would not see for much longer. Silence reigned in the kitchen. No one ate, not even the little boy.

Then the boy whispered, "Are you leaving, Papa?"

The mother stared out the kitchen window, her forehead furrowed in little ripples. The father cleared his throat, stood, then knelt in front of the little boy's chair.

"Yes, Sammy. I have to go fight the bad men in Europe."

The mother took in a shaky breath, but refused to look at them.

"And," the father continued, "I really don't want to leave on bad terms." He stared at the mother's face. His eyes traced the line of her cheeks and the curl of her lashes, memorizing every crease.

She finally looked him in the eyes. "I do not want to lose you," she choked.

He only nodded, rising to her side.

She held back a sob at his light touch, "You come back."

His departure was solemn. Days turned into weeks, then months. He was gone, but they managed. Some letters came, but they were always short, always full of longing.

Without him by her side, she woke earlier, preparing a lean breakfast of cereal and applesauce for her and her son before each left for work or school. When she returned to the table in the evenings, she always prayed, pleading for his safe return.

Her little boy saw her and repeated her prayer at his bedside each night. He placed his wish on the stars hanging outside his little window. He hoped they would listen. He didn't want his mother to cry anymore.

The post his mother received on that cold winter day came at an odd time, or so the little boy thought. It was strange how it was only one letter. It was an official envelope; something he thought was important.

He followed his mother back to the kitchen, returning to his seat to color. With shaking hands, she peeked at the telegram. She let the paper fall to the table, covering her mouth to harness her wails. As she crumpled to the floor, the little boy jumped to his feet in alarm. Turning to the table, he only caught a glimpse of the letters "K.I.A." as the paper folded back in on itself.