The Angels Will Bring You Home

A mother learns her son has been killed in active duty. She goes to his room to remember him when a knock on the door interrupts her and changes her life.

 

She sat alone at the breakfast table, barely awake with sleep still in her eyes. Reaching out tentatively, she grasped the small parcel that arrived on her door step just minutes before. She allowed it to roll through her hands, the heavy weight bearing down on her tired fingers. It was tattooed with many stamps and postage, but one stuck out the most. It was the address of the army base her son was stationed at. Her poor heart fluttered within its boney cage. With trembling hands she ripped away the paper and found herself staring at a small cardboard box taped shut.

She sighed softly to herself. She pushed back from the table and slowly stood up, wincing when her joints started to pop their protest. Walking slowly to the cabinets, she reached out and opened a drawer and produced a small paring knife. She returned to her mysterious box and started to cut away diligently at the tape. The tape clung to the box with fervor but the tired woman managed to tear the tape away. The small box sagged against itself and a corner began to open. Tears glistened in the poor woman’s eyes as she stared down at the box.

Frail fingers reached out and began to slowly open the box. A glint of metal sent the woman into hysterics.

“No! Not my baby!” she cried, seizing the dog tags. She clutched them to her breast and heavy sobs wracked her body. A note slipped out of the box; she could make out the seal of the President. Tears streamed down the mothers worn out face. With hatred flowing through her she snatched the note and balled it in her fist.

“What could you possibly say to me?! There is no excuse for my son’s death! Why, Lord? Why did you take my baby away from me?” she screamed at the top of her lungs. Sobs consumed her small body as she clung on for dear life onto the tags. Cries of anguish were ripped from the mother’s throat.

One by one, the pieces of her heart broke away. Her only son was dead. She had no family left now. Her poor husband Harold died when the fire broke out in the horse barn. Her son was only fifteen when God called Harold home.

How could a woman possibly keep going now? Knowing that her only son was taken from her? She had no one left in her life, no one to call late at night when something was weighing heavy on her mind, no one to pat her hand and tell her everything will be ok. Nothing will ever be the same again.

With tears in her eyes, the mother silently studied the dog tags. The way they curved, the way the letters marred the metal. A sob caught in her throat; she let the chain slip over her head and watched as the tags settled on her chest. The metal was cold, but her soul was colder.

The old mother made herself get up and make herself a cup of coffee. While waiting for the water to come to a boil, she headed upstairs to remember her boy. She shuffled down the hall and pushed open a door decorated with stickers and posters. A familiar feeling settled into the old woman’s bones. Her son was still in this room. He was in the scent of the clothes. He was in the air that she breathed. He was all around her, watching her with that crooked smile of his.

She took a seat on the bed and looked around the room. Her eyes settled on an old photo album collecting dust on his desk. Getting to her feet, she made her way to his desk. She pulled out the chair and gingerly sat down. When she opened the front cover, a cry was lodged in her throat. Letters from magazines and newspapers were cut out to spell “My life through time”. Under the words was a picture of her and her son, sitting on the porch swing with him in his cap and gown from his graduation. She was looking straight at the camera with a big grin plastered on her face. Her son had leaned over at the last second and placed a kiss on his mother’s cheek.

Without thinking, the woman brought her hand to touch her cheek, still remembering the love her son always showed her.

The tears began to flow once more as she flipped through the pages, her eyes studying every single picture until she had it etched into her memory.

“My precious baby boy,” she murmured every now and then, her fingers grazing the pictures.

The doorbell brought her out of her mental state. She gasped, her heart beating frantically. She quickly wiped away the tears and fixed her hair. The doorbell rang again, followed by quick knocks.

“Don’t they know better than to scare an old woman like that? Hold your horses, I’m coming, I’m coming!” she growled to herself.

When she reached the bottom step, the knocking had become more desperate, hardly stopping.

“Will you knock it off!” she cried.

She reached for the door and opened it, ready to scold the person who bothered her. Her jaw dropped and a small hand grabbed the tags she was still wearing and held them to her heart.

“Hi, Momma.”