Two long months have passed
since I last wrote to you.
I miss you dear and life itís been
a struggle to get through.
My Thomas, every night I pray
for an ending to this war.
I scarcely can remember now
just what weíre fighting for.
Each day another soldier dies;
another widow weeps.
Each night I reach to touch you not
from in the depth of sleep.
Youíre now a dad, a baby boy
who looks so much like you
with hair of gold, soft satin skin,
and sparkling eyes of blue.
How quietly he lays at night
so still, his body curled.
How frightening I find to bring
a son into this world.
Will he be called to war like you
and leave his new-found bride?
Will he watch untold horrors lapse
as death walks by his side?
I show him his dadís picture
that is hung upon the wall,
the one I took of you
down by the barn, here in the fall.
I hold him close and tell him of
a man heíll never know;
who was a hero, was his dad
and God, I miss you so.
I hate to go, but Thomas,
I must, now, tell you goodnight.
It hurts to put this down in words
but this is the last Iíll write.
We buried you three weeks ago
out there on Thompsonís hill
by that old oak we picnicked 'neath
where Dawson's Creek runs still.
I planted flowers on your grave,
though none have sprouted yet,
theyíll blossom bright among the greens
so no one will forget
the man you were,
the hero, who bravely fought so well
and saved the lives of many
on the field where he, then, fell.
Time wonít erase the life we shared
or dull my memory;
time only takes what we allow.
photo copyright of Ruth Kephart