Roast my work plz (The War at Home)
I woke up as soon as the sun started to peek in. In the bed, the space next to me was cold; it hadn’t been slept in last night. The house was unusually quiet, as I was the only one awake. It was too early to start breakfast, so I went to work on my husband’s chores. My feet started blindly moving towards the door. They were heavy, as if someone filled them with mud.
As I walked through the gray abyss of the world, I remembered. I remembered packing his bag with him, I remembered the tears, and I remembered the final embrace. He was gone. Why did he have to fight? They had plenty of other men! Why did they have to take my husband away from me? And all for what, a war?
I began the work that my husband usually does; chopping wood and tending to the animals. After that, he would say goodbye to the children and then he left for work. He was a potter. He was really good at his trade, because he had such delicate hands. He used to make pots with those hands, he used to hold my children with those hands...and now he’ll be holding a musket. I sat there, in the pale gray, chilly, sleeping, world...and cried. My tears began to wash the old tear stains away, and create new ones. After a while, I began to calm down, somewhat. Well, I thought, I’m not getting anything done out here.
Inside, I stared at the sky, which was ever so slowly stretching itself out for the day. As it stretched, it turned from pale gray to purplish-gray, purple, then blue. Pity, I was beginning to like the pale gray color.
It’s no use. It didn’t matter what color the sky was, or how much work I did, he’s not coming back anytime soon. There was a horrible, hollow feeling filling up my heart. I was actually starting to miss the sadness. I’d rather be sad then hollow. I’d rather be anything, just as long as I’m not hollow.
There was a small squeak from the hallway. My daughter sat there, watching me. I could tell that she was as broken as I was, if not more.
“Mama, where’s Papa?”
“He’s um...not here right now.”
“He’s gone to war, hasn’t he?”
“Sarah! Whatever gave you that idea?” She took a deep breath.
“I listen. I listen to you and papa. I listen to the neighbors. I listen to the men shouting in the streets. I listen to the important people that everyone else listens too. I listen to the important people’s slaves complaining. I listen to redcoats and their swears. I listen to the newspapers’ big, bold headlines. I listen to the world. All you have to do is look around, the sky, the plants, the animals, the people, they all scream war. It’s not that hard to figure out, you know...Mama?”
Hot tears began their slow journey down my cheeks.
“Yes, Sarah. Papa has gone to war.”
At that moment, we both ran to each other and embraced. Hot tears and arms were flung everywhere, while the sky looked sadly on. “Yes, Sarah. Papa has gone to war.” played over and over in my head. Yes, Sarah. Papa has gone to war.
We sat there crying, wishing there was something we could do, but knowing there was nothing we could do. Wishing doesn't have the power to change. We sat there, for what seems like hours, even though it was probably actually minutes. After that, there were sniffles and sighs, and silence.
The silence was unending and nerve racking. My shoulders started to shake and droplets of cold sweat began forming on my forehead. I wanted so desperately to speak, but I knew that there was nothing to be said. The silence spoke loud enough.
When my husband was here, there was always something to say. It was never forced either, it was free-flowing and natural. Conversation was never hard in our family. The second silence struck, its horrible sound was drowned out by our laughter.
Silence wasn’t always horrible, though. In our family, there was a peaceful, reassuring silence. The silence that lets you know that everything is going to be alright. That silence sounded like stars whispering to each other in the middle of the night, while the world slept on. That silence was the most peaceful sound in the world. However, it didn't exist anymore.
Now, silence screamed out, its horrible sound choking us, causing us to drown in our own thoughts. That was the silence that I felt in that moment. My daughter felt it, too. I’m positive that my husband felt it. No matter how bad the silence is here, it’s probably ten times louder on the battlefield, where the sound of guns firing and thousands of individual lives forming together into a single, screaming voice aren't even the loudest sounds. No, the loudest sound is the one that comes after the war. After are the battles are fought and done with, after all the dust settles, is the loudest sound, the sound of silence. The sound of hundreds of bodies lying dead and defeated, the sound of the thousands of lives that were maimed and broken by the empty bodies with their souls missing. That was the loudest sound.
And that was the sound of silence that reigned in our house that day. It’s what I heard, it’s what my daughter heard, and it’s what my son heard, too. He woke up that morning to silence.
“What’s going on?” His voice was a scratchy whisper, not much unlike the whisper of death, hiding by my husband’s base, ready to get to work a moment’s notice. Sarah was the first to react.
“Papa has gone to war!”
The words didn’t sink in at first. He just stood there, looking confused. Then, that single sentence pierced his heart, causing it bleed out. Bits of emotion flew everywhere and crashed into the earth. He began grabbing at his head, trying to force himself to forget. When he realized that wouldn’t work, he turned to me.
“It’s not true.” There was nothing else to do. I looked him square in the eye and silently nodded.
“No it’s not! He didn’t go!”
“Thomas”, I said, “I know that this is hard for you. But you just have to accept it.”
“No!” he screamed, while he began to kick. He started to beat the furniture, doing anything and everything he could to keep from accepting the painful truth.
“He didn’t leave! He’s at work. He just left early, that’s all. Yeah, that’s all.” His voice began to quiver.
“That’s all.”, he whispered, then slung his face into his hands. He collapsed onto the floor, as I quickly sat down next to him, rubbing his back.
“I know, Thomas, I know.” He looked sharply into my face and said, “Did you try to keep him here, Mama?”
“Yes, of course I tried.”
“Then why did he go?”
“He wanted to protect us.”
“From what?”
“From Britain, from the redcoats. The redcoats have been controlling us. They’ve been telling us what to do, what not to do, and how do do it.” With that, he promptly got up, put his shoes on, hugged and kissed Sarah, and then me.
“Where are you going?”
“To fight with Papa. If it means protecting you, and being with Papa, I’m going to do it.”
“No, you can’t!” Sarah ran in front of him and guarded the door.
“And why not?”, he yelled.
¨Because Papa would've wanted you here, to help us. What are we going to do without you? We've already lost Papa. Don't make us lose you, too.¨
He sank down into a nearby chair, realizing that there was nothing he could do. He looked up towards the sky. ¨Why me?! Why Papa? What did I do? Because whatever I did, I’m sorry! It’s not fair! You shouldn't make Papa pay for whatever I did, take me instead! You've already tortured me enough! I’ll do anything if you just bring Papa back! Please!¨ he screamed to anyone who might be listening. After that, he began to sob.
To tell you the truth, I had been asking those same questions and saying those same things during my evening prayers. At that moment, I would've done anything to have my husband back. I continually bargained with whatever force that was causing this. I offered to give up anything, including my life, just so my husband would come back. I knew that my children were most likely doing the same thing.
I would very much rather have my life ended than my husband’s. Without him, I felt that my life was basically meaningless. Now I know that that is far from true, but at the time, I believed it to be true. I sank into a kind of depression, and one that will never be forgotten. My life was empty, my words were hollow. My daughter saw this and said, “Mama, you have us.”
The words hit me as I realized all the emotion and truth behind them. My son stopped crying and we all embraced. Even though my husband was gone, I still had my children, and I still had to take care of them. That alone proved that my life was far from meaningless. And my husband was fighting to protect us. The least I could do was support him, instead of moping. I took a deep breath. My son glanced up and asked, ¨So, what do we do now?”
I thought long and hard about my answer. In the end, I knew that there was really only thing that we could do. “We live, we pray, and we hope.”