Coming Home 70

Fingers trembling, she gripped the rumpled envelope tightly, her heart galloping as she read the boldly scrawled writing across the front. The summer breeze ruffled her hair, fragrant blooms from the nearby garden infusing every breath she took with rich sweetness, but the peacefulness of the day did nothing to alleviate the erratic pounding of her heart against her ribcage.

She licked her lips nervously, unable to quell her sudden anxiety. Leaning rigid against the mailbox, she ripped open the envelope, knowing she was too impatient for the twenty or so paces it would take to get indoors. Privacy was overrated, anyway.

Swallowing thickly, she snatched out the neatly folded, lined paper, the perforated edges a little ragged. Smoothing the yellow paper between her palms, her eyes pinpointed on the date first, then her name scrawled across the top. And then she began to read, each paragraph, each sentence, each

word

filling her with a yearning that wouldn't be appeased until they were at last reunited.

Feb. 10, 2012

My dearest Megan,

How I long to whisper your name aloud, to have you hear me, see you shudder as my breath caresses the gentle slope of your cheek. To have my lips upon yours once more is an image that keeps me awake at night, and if I'm lucky enough to sleep, it invades my dreams, too.

Our separation has given me too much time to dwell on our last night together, not even the blast of gunfire and the ferocity of battle able to eclipse the memory that has been so imprinted on my mind. Do you remember, Megan, when my orders came through and we realized I'd be shipped overseas in just a week's time? Do you remember the lakeside, your body splayed on the scratchy grains of sand, the sunset casting you in ethereal shadows that caressed your body just as my eyes were doing? Because I do. I remember every detail, every minor detail, branded as it is in my mind.

I remember everything, Meg.

I took your hand, your tapered fingers intertwining with my own, and I led you down to the lake. The sun had already begun to set, reflecting red and gold on the gently rippling water, your pale complexion bronzing under its intensity. Your purple eyes, so much like amethyst gems, sparkled at me, conveying so much love, fear, affection, and yes, even a desperate need that I completely understood and reciprocated. I stopped you there at the lakeshore, my fingers gripping yours all the tighter, drawing you nearer and nearer until our bodies were bare centimeters apart.

Talking had ceased. We didn't need it anymore, communicating solely with our bodies, our eyes. When I removed your clothing, unwrapping you reverently as I would a precious gift, each brush of my lips across your smooth, pale skin was a wordless claiming of pure adoration. When I gently laid your body against the cool sand, the feather-light touches of my fingers against your luscious curves that made you tremble were proclamations of my awe of you. Your beauty, your grace, your innate intelligence and your unfailing compassion all had me in awe of you. And when my mouth molded to yours, my tongue coaxing your plump lips apart and plunging deep to tangle with yours, it was a declaration of my love for you.

And when I finally slipped into your warm sheath, the moist haven of your womanhood gripping me in silk-lined heaven, it was only expounding on my love for you, topped off with a promise of everlasting devotion. My eyes locked with yours as my thrusting strokes drove us both higher and higher, winding us both tighter and tighter, my gaze communicating the intensity of those emotions swirling inside me and reading the same in yours. And as we were both shoved over the precipice, splintering together into shattering ecstasy, our cries echoed over the water and resounded back: I love you, I love you, I love you.

I love you, baby.

I held you throughout that night, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, the moon rising and painting your body in a silver cast. Your eyes continually fluttered beneath your lids and I could tell that what you were dreaming of was a future. A future without me in it. Small whimpers scraped past your throat, your forehead creasing and your arms gripping me all the tighter as if you could hold me to this earth with your indomitable will. I kissed your brow, smoothing out those distressed wrinkles, whispering nonsensical words of comfort that finally quieted your unconscious worries. But I couldn't quiet them in myself. The aftermath of our lovemaking there by the lake had blanketed me in warmth but the cold fear of a future without you forever at my side was quickly leeching into me.

My fears, dearest Megan, have finally been laid to rest. I'm coming home, to you. And as I've always told you,

you

represent home to me. It never matters what four walls shelter us; as long as I have you, I'm home.

I'm finally home.

Forever yours,

Andrew

Slumping against the mailbox in relief, the rigidness of her muscles melting away, Megan clasped the letter tightly to her chest, tears she couldn't dispel leaking from her eyes. The trembling of her lips, the fluttering of her heart, the singing

joy

racing through her veins... it was all in utter relief. Andrew was coming home.

That long ago night by the lake -- so,

so

long ago -- had been just as imprinted on her mind as it had been on his. The memory of it kept her strong, the safety of his arms enfolding her, the mastery of his possession branding her and keeping her warm with the remembered heat.

And it had left one tangible piece of evidence.

Her hands caressing her distended belly, the letter a security blanket across the mound, she smiled softly through her tears. "Did you hear that, baby boy?" she whispered. "Daddy's coming home."

Finally, Andrew was coming home.