I found a little bundle of letters when cleaning out my mom's desk. Sorting through her things: one of those sad rituals you must go through when your parent is sliding onward, away from home, closer to the end. And here was this silent diary--faded, lying dormant, ready to display a snapshot of history through their few words. I saw that they were from my uncle, written to his parents and sister--my mom. It was during World War II, from the Battleship USS Texas. He wrote in an upbeat tone, secretive about where he was or what he knew. Letter after mundane letter--a redacted glimpse of the life of a seaman in a dreadful war. I pictured his voice saying these things. He sounded so measured and descriptive. So unlike his usual self--flowing with strong opinions about everything. I could feel the uncertainty. The complete surrender to an indefinite mission far greater than him. How did he feel about the death he already saw? And would yet see again? He gave us no clue. I'm sure he thought it better that way for his family. He knew they would be less able to handle the uncertainties than he. At least he had a job to do each day. Everyone else had to wait at home wondering. What was he doing today? Where was the ship now? Were the Germans firing at them? Were planes attacking them? Quiet. All was hushed there in the warm little house in Palmyra, New Jersey. Roast beef, Brussels sprouts, potatoes. Comfort food. They wanted him there to feed him. But all they had were these thin paper letters in their hands. With his writing. How precious they were. How they wanted him home, to hug him. But they dare not hope for that. Not with this war going on.
And here we are. Reading them sixty years later. Safely removed from those exciting, terrible times.