Out of Tune [602 words]

It was a terrible day when the news arrived. The doorbell rang. My brother and I raced eachother to the door, both eager to see who it was just on the other side. Could it be the deliveryman, with presents for next week? Or maybe it was Uncle Ron, here to wish us a 'Happy Birthday!', and be on his way? Or could even be? Would we dare hope? That maybe Father was home at last?

But it wasn't the deliveryman, and it wasn't Uncle Ron, and even thought we thought, for just a second, that it was Father, it just wasn't. The man who stood on our doorstep was wearing a crisp blue military jacket. He looked almost like Father, off to war that first day. My brother and I stood uncertainly, feeling we should let him in, but knowing somehow that the news he carried, was what would shatter our happy life.

"Well boys? Who is it?" My mother's sweet voice floated down the hallway, accompanied by the sweet smell of baking bread. No one seemed to have the energy to speak. I felt my mothers warmth behind me. Her hand was soft and comforting on my shoulder.

"Why, hello." She greeted the man. I heard the change in her voice. It wasn't happy anymore. It was dread wearing a mask. "What can we do for you?"

The man shifted nervously, and glanced down at the paper he held. "Are you..." He squinted down at the paper, "Mrs. Jones?" My mother nodded.

"Indeed I am." She replied. The young man took a breath, and flipped the paper over.

"Mrs. Jones, I regret to inform you and your family, that your husband has been declared MIA, or 'missing in action'." He stopped abruptly, as if expecting more words, and yet, there were none. The young soldier bobbed his head, murmured a quiet, "I'm very sorry for your loss." and turned around, walking down the steps.

I don't think any of us saw him go.

Weeks have passed. Months. I still find my mother sitting in the parlor. She sits by a worn down piano. It was my fathers, so I suppose that's why. She and Father would sit there sometimes, after dinner, and sing countless songs together. My mother had a beautiful voice, as silky soft as it was striking. She could set a mood with a single note. How I longed to have a voice like hers. And Father. He played the most emotional tunes, with the subtle undertones, giving the piano a voice, one as magnificent as my mother's. Neither of them needed words for you to understand the song.

My mother didn't sing. The house was silent. Sometimes, at night, when I lay in bed, I longed for her to hum. Just hum a tune. She used to. She used to hum, and sing, no matter where she was. Doing the dishes, making dinner, doing the laundry. I didn't hear her sing until the day the letter came. I wondered why the sent a man the first time, and a typed letter the next, but then again, nine-year-old boys wonder about everything.

Father was dead. His dog tags were included with the letter. My mother put them on, and I didn't see her without them again.

That night, she sat by the piano, and sang. It was a beautiful melody, soft in it's longing, and forceful with it's raw need. But it was a little off. Just a bit out of tune. just like my Mother would forever be, missing the man that had made her whole.