The Wings of Angels

She sat under the apple tree watching the spring breeze excite the blossoms. She held his last letter postmarked APO somewhere in Vietnam. She knew his last words by heart now. No need to open and read them again. The letter smelled of him, his cologne. Whenever she missed him she answered his last letter in her mind.

“The girls are doing fine. They are getting big you won't recognize them. Dance class is going well. Can you believe our oldest has a beau, not a real boyfriend but a boy who comes by now and then. They do homework together and listen to records, he reminds me of you. The tree our magnificent tree. We had so many apples last year the yard smelled of sour apples for weeks. I miss you. When are you coming home? Don't write to me about the firefights, the times when you are in harms way. I can't handle that. I don’t want to know. Maybe we can go see my parents next summer. I miss you.”

The tears started to roll down her cheeks. “But you won't be coming home will you? Why did you have to be the hero? You promised me you would come home. You reneged on your promise. Couldn't someone else have saved that boy? Did you have to volunteer? Why? I know what you would say: I am a soldier. I hate you for what you did. I hate you for being a soldier, for going to war I hate all of you.”

She held her head in her hands weeping, sobbing. The letter, his letter still in her hands. “I miss you.”

All around her the soft pink petals from the wind swept apple blossoms fell. Some rested upon her shoulders, some in her hair.