Climbing the stairs up to the third floor and then getting up those rickety steps to the attic was hard, hard from a physical standpoint and hard for the memories, which were held in the attic. There were all the odd things he and Martha had collected over their 57 years of married life, plus all of Martha's clothes, which he just could not throw away. Durn he was still mad at Martha for just up and dying on him, how dare she to leave him like that after 57 years?

He made it to the attic, durn it was dusty up here and gosh he had forgotten how the wind did shake and rattle this old house, a three story house with a garret attic that never did get finished. He sat in the old wicker chair at the top and rested a minute, then for some unknown reason something pulled him to an old green, well olive drab GI footlocker, which he had not opened it for many, many years.

He slowly knelt in front of the footlocker, brushed off some of the dust with his arm, then opened the box. As he did he smiled for he was always doing that and each time he would be reprimanded for dirtying his clothes.

His smile widened for there was his old barracks hat, the one he had worn when he was presented his medals, and when he was discharged from the Corps, back, way back. As he looked at the nostalgic items he saw the stripes from his Dress Blues, and his one, his only hash mark. Then something caught his eye and he reached down and picked up a handkerchief-covered packet. He took the handkerchief off and there, tied together, was a small packet of letters. All the letters he had received from her after he shipped out.

He turned the packet over and there was the address: Sgt. Washington J Smith, First Mar Div, 6th Bat., Co. C, FMF Pac, San Diego, Calif. He he looked at the return address, Miss Jayne Jones, Plainsville, Wyoming, and his heart leapt. He read the return address and like a bolt, memories, sweet memories went through his mind and his heart started to beat fast, for oh the memories and dreams he had of Jayne. He had not looked at the letters since he got back, and he had often meant to throw them away. But he did not and Martha understood, and he felt she would not hold it against him.

He untied the piece of binder twine, which held the letters together, opened the first letter and slowly began to read. As he read he realized how he had loved Jayne and how, oh how, they had been all set to marry till he got his orders and her parents said no, wait till he comes back. What a mistake, what a glaring stupid mistake!

Slowly he read through the letters,savoring each word, savoring and grasping each, "I love you." For Miss Jayne Jones had a beautiful style of cursive writing, yet so easy to read, and her simple way with words were, to him, very poetic.

One letter got to him and he pulled out his faded red bandanna from his right hind pocket. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose. Then slowly he folded the old red bandanna as he had done every time he had used one for what, nigh on to seventy years now. For once when he had taken Jayne to the movies, he had wiped sweat from his brow then stuffed the bandanna back in is rear pocket and she had taken exception, "That looks horrible, for it is like you put a baseball in your pocket. Why don't you fold it back up so it lays flat and does look better if one notices." She had pulled the bandanna out of his rear pocket, neatly folded it and slid it back into his pocket, then patted it. "See, it does look better." He had taken exception to that but then he found he just started doing it and for nearly seventy years he had always folded his handkerchief after he used it.

He read on, and finally came to the those where he was missing in action, the ones and the time, which caused him to lose his love, his one true love, Jayne Jones. And he started to read, " . . .Haven't heard from you in two weeks, hope you are fine and safe . . . . I bought the third installment on the silver and have twelve dollars saved toward that China we liked".

He smiled, bute a tear slowly seeped from his eye and made its way down along his cheek close to his nose, right along that crevice and finally into his white beard. Yes, that was when they had been over run and for two weeks they had been lost.

Then the next one, . . . ."The government said you were missing in action, but I had to write to tell you I love you and will wait. I know you will come through this OK. . . . . We have followed the battle and the problems and the whole village is praying for your safety and return to Plainsville. . ."

He read on as more tears came, this time from both eyes and made their way from his eyes down to his mustache. Again he wiped, and again he folded the now very damp bandanna, which he put it back in his pocket.

Eventually, he opened the final one, the coup de grace. . . "Your folks were told today that you had disappeared in battle and that your entire company had been lost . . . I am still praying and know you are still alive, . . . . . so when you finally get this, just remember I love you. . . ."

And then the events of that terrible six months again went through his head. How they had been cut off, and fought, snuck and crawled back to their own lines only to be hit by an artillery shell as they were getting on a truck to go to the rear. And the waking up five months later in the hospital and known as 'Sgt. John Doe." How, when he came to and had the Red Cross notify his Jayne, his love, the woman he had so much wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

When he recovered they had decided they would get married as soon as he got back to the states. The ship tied up at San Diego and as soon as he hit the beach he called her and she left the next day. Oh how he wished he had waited, how many times over the years had he rued that telephone call; how many times had he wished the call undone. How many times had he wished it had been him who had died, for the train car, the car in which she was riding, was hit by a logging truck and everyone in that car had been killed. Oh why had he not waited?

Martha had rescued him from the life of a drunk and she had understood. They had a good life and over the years he did learn to love the woman who bore his children and shared his bed, the woman who had nursed him, cared for him and who had worked with him to make a good life. He sat there, just numb, after he finished the last letter in which he had relived his life; he still ached for Jayne, his lovely Jayne.

He slowly took the letters, put them back into their envelopes, arranged them in order and tied the piece of binder twine about them. Then carefully he placed the handkerchief about them and placed them back into the old locker box. Then he put his barracks hat back into the box being very careful not to place it so it would get distorted. He closed the box and tried to stand. "Dad blame it anyhow, come on knees let me get up," he said in a rough tone as he struggled to stand.

Finally he arose, turned and reviewed each item, which was in the attic. Satisfied that all was well, and in place, he looked up, and with a smile, said, "Forgive me Martha, but you do know how much I love her and how much I loved you for the wonderful life you gave me."

He turned off the light and precautiously made his way back down into the third floor hall. As he pushed the folding stairs back up into the ceiling, he shook his head. "Why did we have to build a three story house anyway?" Then he grinned and could hear Jayne's voice. "I want a three story house, one that is taller than anyone else's so I can go upstairs and look down on anyone who I do not like."

He slowly made his way down the steps, got into his old truck, drove to Safeway and bought one red rose for Martha and one yellow rose for Jayne. He took them to the cemetery where he spent the rest of the day talking with his two ladies.

� Tom ([email protected])