Don's Late Letter

She had not been expecting a letter. At first, when she saw the strange name and address on the return label, she assumed this must be one for "the other Don"-the man in Brunswick she had never met, with the same first and last name as her husband. A parcel of his occasionally found its way through her mail slot. But the name at the top of the hand-lettered address said "Donald L." That other one had a middle initial of A., she knew. The letter was for her Don afterall.

She clicked on the overhead light and sat down at her kitchen table. She took her letter opener from the pencil cup that sat next to her napkin holder, slipped its tip under one corner and tore open the envelope.

It was from a woman named Rachel who lived in Ohio. She introduced herself as 68 years old, married with children and grandchildren, retired from schoolteaching. In 1951 she was ten years old, and shortly before Christmas was directed by her mother to a feature in the local newspaper about writing to wounded soldiers, to let them know they had not been forgotten during the holidays. From a list at the bottom of the page she selected Don, who was then a patient at Bethesda Naval Hospital, and sent him a card.

She was cleaning out her attic recently (Rachel's letter explained) when she found the card Don had sent her in return. How was he, she was wondering. Looking up his address, she discovered he had a wife named Nancy-had they any children? Grandchildren?

Behind the letter Rachel enclosed the thank-you card she had received from Don. On the front was a reproduction of a Norman Rockwell painting-Santa Claus on the roof, one foot in the chimney, smiling at the viewer with a finger to his lips. Inside it was dated December 21, 1951. Beneath the date, Don had written with a felt-tipped pen,

"Rachel,

"Thank you for your card. It means a lot that there are those of you out there thinking of us in here. I hope you will not be too disappointed to know I am a sailor, not a soldier. There are lots of those in here, too. It doesn't matter what service we are in, really. We are all here for the same reason. I will be getting out of here and going home soon, but I am glad I got to hear from you before I go. Thanks again, and Merry Christmas to you and your family.

"Regards,

"Don"

The 21^st of December 1951, she thought, holding her husband's card in her hands. That was just before he was honorably discharged. (He had his certificate framed and hung it on the wall in the dining room, where it hung still.) He would have been eight days away from his 22^nd birthday. Four years away from their marriage. Five years away from the birth of their son. Younger than either of their grandsons.

Nancy folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope along with the card. She placed it on her dining room table and went into the bathroom. As she ran cool water over her hands and patted her face, she thought to herself of how it would have thrilled him, how he would have sat at the kitchen table and read it, how it would have made him smile to have that lost bit of his youth carried back to him so unexpectedly, after so long. If only Rachel had cleaned out her attic six years ago.

The look on his face, Nancy thought, gazing at herself in the mirror through puffy eyes. That would have been something.