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Bliss by Vanessa Rasanen

  It has been months since the last letter, but I try not to worry.

  Every day that passes without a knock on the door brings peace, and I fall asleep trusting he's safe, at least for now. The officers visited Ellie two doors down this week, and I wiped my tears away from behind the lace curtain watching her crumple in pain on her porch. Our town is small and nearly every family has been touched by this war. Fathers, husbands, sons called up to fight evil in far-away lands. Those of us left behind pass the time as best we can with little word aside from what we can pick up in the newspapers or in the few letters we receive.

  For the past two years I've held onto his picture, desperate to keep his face from slipping from my mind. The only thing worse than losing him is to lose the memory of him, too. I spend my days tending to the house, hoping that when he does come home it is ready for him. After breakfast I sweep the floors and dust the shelves. The afternoons I run to the store and start dinner. I cook for two every night, sitting down to the meal watching the door with eager--and perhaps absurd--hope. Our porch calls me in the evening where I enjoy fresh raspberries from the bush under the window. Sometimes I sew. Sometimes I just sit. But I've found it's best if my hands are busy so my mind doesn't wander to the nightmares and the worries.

  Of my closest friends, three lost their husbands in Normandy; another, a few days later, and that was tough. I had to hide my relief as I mourned with them, unsure of how to help them beyond the extra casserole or the baked pie. I was barely eighteen at the time, a new wife, a new adult, and I felt ill-equipped to handle this new reality of pain and grief. With each new telegram the town weeped together, wrapping each other in loving arms of support twenty-three times in the last two years, nearly half of my graduating high school class.

  I lean against the porch railing tonight, basking in the summer evening glow of the sun, wondering what I'll do when the last of these berries have been picked and eaten. I close my eyes while biting into one. I want to enjoy the burst of sweetness, but the image of Ellie that morning takes over, keeping me from sensing anything but despair. I reach down to grab my glass, but don't realize it's empty until I've already tilted it back. I drop my handful of raspberries onto the railing, not caring that they've rolled, a few falling into the grass below. I sigh and head inside to get a refill of my lemonade.

  I decide to bring the pitcher out with me and start pouring as I walk through the screen door, focusing on the glass in my hand so as not to spill any over my fingers like last time. I wonder if the neighbor's cat has come back to eat my berries, and I wish I'd never shared with her that evening last month. Maybe then the bush wouldn't be so bare so soon. I look up to see the berries missing, but it isn't the cat who has eaten them.

  He stands there with his back to me, and my heart stops. At first I wonder if this is an officer coming to deliver bad news, but my eye drops to the cane in his right hand, his weight leaning on it as he uses his left to wipe raspberry juice from his chin. He hears my gasp as my breath catches in my throat, and he turns slowly.

  He doesn't look like his picture anymore. His face is weathered with a new scar above his left eye. His eyes show the years of war, battle and combat, but as he stares at me the pain and loss fade from the deep blues and all I see is love. I want to drop everything and run to him, but with a deep breath I remind myself that would only leave a mess to clean up later, so I set the pitcher and glass carefully down on the table. The cane has me nervous, and I hesitate, walking slowly, fighting the urge to tackle him, not knowing what injuries he has hidden under his uniform. His eyes change again, this time to the mischievous spark I remember from years ago. With one motion he's removed his hat, dropped his cane and closed the distance between us. Ignoring the cringe the pain in his leg creates, he lifts me up and twirls me around, and in that kiss--with the taste of raspberries and summer and years spent apart--is the wedded bliss I've been missing.

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