One Last Look

When her family suggested she transition to a retirement community, Maeve had remained calm and gentle. She hadn’t fought or argued and had acknowledged a greater need to simplify. She agreed that her children’s lives were too full and too far away for them to simply check on her more frequently. Maeve knew that what her children were asking of her had come from a place of love so she calmly acquiesced. All she requested was a little bit of time to say goodbye to her space. Her family agreed and left her to privately prepare for her departure.

Maeve walked from room to room in her little Cape Cod style home. She peered into the kitchen and nodded in thanks to her kettle, stove, and oven for their years of service in preparing her meals and evening tea. She stood in the dining room and acknowledged the table and chairs and all the happy memories of gatherings that they held. Maeve moved to the living room and rested her hand on the worn recliner that her husband Dermot had been so fond of before his passing. She glanced at the blank television screen and thanked it for entertainment - and more grudgingly for news - even though she wasn’t quite sure when she had last turned it on. The bathroom and laundry were given thanks for keeping her clean and refreshed before she turned to go upstairs.

The banister was warm and sturdy, feeling much stronger to Maeve than she felt herself. At the top of the stairs she paused by the window and the little writing desk still littered with crayon drawings from her youngest great grandson, Ethan. He had been so bubbly during the visit, not yet old enough to understand what the family had come there to ask of Maeve. The innocent doodles of a stick figure family and cheery little home strengthened her resolve to see the task through and Maeve moved on to the bedrooms.

The first bedroom had belonged to her daughter. Maeve remembered how Layla had begged to have it papered when she was a teenager. She wanted a bold geometric print in brown, orange, and ochre. Maeve chuckled at the memory of her daughter’s excitement when she had agreed to allow it if Layla did the work. The paper was long gone now, but in her mind’s eye Maeve could still see Layla smiling proudly after hours of carefully positioning the wallpaper to line up the pattern and hide the seams.

Across the hall had been her son’s room. Barry had seemed engaged yet directionless. He showed interest in practically everything he encountered, but never settled on any area of study for too long. Maeve recalled her great sense of fear when he announced that since he couldn’t decide on a major, he had enlisted in the Army. She remembered her gratitude when her son came home from war, but also the loss she felt when she could see that he no longer carried himself with light-hearted curiosity. Maeve took a deep breath and stepped back out into the hall.

Maeve stood before the door to the master bedroom, not quite sure what she was waiting for. She had already lived for several years on her own now, but somehow standing outside that door she was suddenly keenly aware of of Dermot’s absence. They had been married for a little over 65 years when he had passed. She could still remember the first time she caught him stealing glances at her from across the schoolyard. He too had gone away to war, vowing to marry her when he came home. Maeve instinctively touched her wedding band as she recalled the way her heart pounded when she heard him call out her name at the crowded train station. He had jubilantly scooped her up in his arms and held her close, undeterred as families all around them jostled to welcome back their brothers and sons. She smiled sadly and opened the door.

The late afternoon light spilled a warm glow on the soft quilted bedspread and cream-colored walls. A multi-faceted prism hung in the window cast little rainbows about the space. Maeve walked slowly to her dresser. She could hear the resonant tone of the large wind chime suspended from the elegant silver maple in her back yard. The room practically hummed with the energy of a lifetime of memories. Tucked in the back left corner of her top dresser drawer was a little wooden box. Maeve hugged it to her for a moment before settling onto the bed. She had waited for so long to open it again. As she faced the reality of stepping away from the place where she had built so much of her life, she finally felt that the time was right.

The box was nondescript and sturdy but Maeve still opened the lid with great care. To her the contents were sacred, imbued with the life of the man she had loved so dearly. Atop a stack of letters was a sleeve patch adorned with the distinctive red bull skull insignia of the 34th Infantry Division. Dermot had been whisked away for training in Louisiana in the summer of 1941. He had written frequently during the four long years he was away. Maeve suspected that the letters home had helped to keep him grounded as the division moved through Tunisia and Italy.

Maeve slowly read through each letter, feeling her old emotions wash over her. Here was his first excited letter from the Division’s continued training in Belfast, his subdued letter after seeing combat for the first time in Algiers. She still shook when she read the pages of his letters following the brutal battles in Sbeitla and Mount Trocchio. She knew he had limited the details in his accounting of the events, but the weight of it all was evident in the fervent slant of his writing. No matter what losses or triumphs he had faced each day, he had signed every letter the same. “Can’t wait to hold you again, Mae. All my love, Dermot.”

Maeve laid back against the pillows, the summer sun disappearing from the sky. She absently rubbed her thumb against the fabric patch, eyes cast upwards but unfocused. She looked again at the last letter she had received, excitedly scrawled with “I’m coming home!” Maeve smiled serenely and clutched the letter to her chest, falling asleep in the memory of a loving embrace.