I wait for time to pass.
I wait without patience but patience I must have.
I wait for the evening to come and then for night to fall so another day dawns and I can strike this last one out.
I wait in sadness when I cannot see myself waiting another day.
I wait when I am happy only to remember why I was sad and I it makes me sad.
And I wait counting on the day getting nearer because surely it can’t be that much longer now.
Not now that it has been so long but another day passes and I hear nothing, no call, no letter.
But when I see the flag on the Letter box I am struck with fear.
I approach it with caution, half hoping you have written, half wishing you didn’t.
Scared it might be the letter. The one I dread most but it never is!
When you do write I read every line and smile seeing you speak the words to me.
Then I read between the lines and you are not speaking anymore but I see you are writing cautiously.
Mouthing silently the phrases to yourself, as if you want to take the sting out.
Then I worry if you said things too lightly. Perhaps hiding things from me.
Then I pick at the writing. Is it too fast, too scared, too flippant, too impersonal?
I am tired and I am stressed. No one understands what it takes to be the wife of a soldier.
I should not be another victim of this damned war.