The Telegram

There was that knock again, disturbing her, who needed rest, the telegram had made her faint and the two soldiers had supported and talked to her, a chaplain would, by morning, be the one who'd been in situations such as this, since sixty-three, they left her in her cold and clammy shell, to take the numbness into bed with her. Who'd knock this time of night, for heaven's sake, it was enough, can sudden widows get some sleep, or do they have to die as well, dear God? She'd had it now, downstairs, she ripped the solid door near off its hinges, standing there in his pyjamas, striped, she'd always loved them, since that day when he had teased her out of them for fun and holy moly games of something sweet and so profound that it had shattered all that Mrs. Jorgenson had known and taught, so here she stood, now face to face with her own man who'd been declared by the official war machine as truly, really dead. He swept her up before she hit Italian slate and carried her upstairs as someone would a trophy of the greatest worth, a treasure. And then, before the witness of the smiling moon, he started peeling, once again and then he said: I've always loved those stars and stripes on you, we wouldn't, though, now overdo the loyalty, my sweet.