Recruit

“Dearest Till,” I wrote in my carefully messy longhand. I couldn’t help but sit and just watch her sleep, gripping the pillows with such mistaken love. I wanted to take the place of her pillows—to correct her mistake—but all the emotion I could muster was letting tears fall softly onto my letter.

“I am leaving Tallapoosa to join the army. I have already made plans and talked with the local recruiter. After what happened to that pilot and what almost happened to you, I feel obligated to fight in this war. I am not fighting for America, or Missouri, or Tallapoosa. I am fighting this war for you.

“I know you don’t understand, and I’m not even sure if I do. All I know is that I can’t stay here any longer. Every night as I watch you sleep, I keep wondering: ‘What if she died? What if she gets tortured? What if she is a victim of the war?’ I don’t want to think thoughts like that, so I’m going to make sure I never have to.

“I will come back for you after the war, so please don’t worry about me. I have taken care of myself for this long, and I’m sure I can take care of myself for just a bit longer. Long enough to make sure you will be safe, anyway.

“Before I leave, I want you to know one last thing: Ever since I met you as a child, I have loved you. Loved you more deeply and more…”

I stared past Till’s still body and out into the warm, rainy night, watching the droplets fall like tears off the small window that framed my desk and couldn’t help but mimic the movements of nature. Flipping over the stub of my pencil, I used the non-existent eraser to half-erase, half-scratch the last paragraph, leaving a scarred, pinkish spot near the bottom of the sheet and proceeded to fill it with: “Yours, Gray.”

I couldn’t believe what I was doing. It wasn’t like me to want something like this so much, but watching Till sleep beautifully, the moonlight and scintillating raindrops lighting her soft body, I simply couldn’t help but leave her, safe in the cocoon of Tallapoosa.

Folding the letter thrice, I wrote “Till” in big letters on the front of the paper, gathered my belongings, and strode out into the night. The rain pattered down on my capped head, pooling around the curved bill, soaking my legs and feet. The Greyhound station wasn’t far, and my steps grew larger as I headed north in the dark.

It wasn’t until I crossed through Jackson, Mississippi that I realized I had forgotten something. In my silent rush, I forgot to grab the photograph I took of Till sitting on our hill. Something unknown popped deep within my body, and I couldn’t stop sobbing. The old woman sitting in front of me turned slightly and shook her head, but I didn’t care. I just kept sobbing silently on the back of that bus until I fell into a rough, restless sleep. I drifted in and out of consciousness and dreamt of Till, sitting on the edge of my bed. She was wearing my old Fraggle Rock tee-shirt, and it fit her like a maternity dress. I was sitting at my desk looking out at the cool, morning sunrise. She walked over to me, wrapped her arms around my neck, and hugged me close and tight. I thought she was about to whisper something, but no sooner than Till had said “Gray,” the bus hit a pothole, shaking my dream like an Etch-A-Sketch, erasing it along with the sleep.

Only another two-hundred miles to Ft. Rucker.

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