Wir Halten Zusammen

We are completely soaked when we finally get into the house.

“You’ll catch a cold, if you stay like that,” I tell him. He blushes and stares at our entwined fingers. He doesn’t want to let go, that much is clear. God, is he beautiful. I drop his hand, aching at the desolate expression on his face, and wrap my arms around him, pulling him close. His silence was scary. Raphael has never been a talkative person, not really aggressive either, but he can and will stand up for himself. But at the funeral he said nothing. So all I could do was stand next to him, a silent sentinel, reminding our family of their place. Because there is nobody else left to do that, other than me.


Letters To A Place Called Home

September 19, 1918


I’ve never been one able to spin words – Ma’s always said my writing was akin to a bull in a tea shop, eating dainties on china – but I’ll do my best to make this bearable. Mary is doing well, the town’s been busy. Everyone’s doing something for the war effort, even the women have gone off to the factories to sew their nylons into planes or something. But since everyone else is too busy, taking care of Mary has fallen to me. Robert’s good at managing the farm, and I manage the finances – I’ve found out I’m actually good with numbers. I know; it surprised me too.