Andrew, pull on your cap, love, its bitter cold out there!
Dont worry, Mum, Im not freezing in the Yorkshire Dales; Ill manage just fine!
Those were his last words before stepping onto the road.
He boarded a coach to Manchester, then caught a flight across the Atlantic to Toronto, swearing hed be back in two years. Twelve winters later the promise lay cracked like old varnish.
Martha stayed in the cottage that had been hers since before the war. The same lace curtains, the same iron stove, the same handwoven rug shed spun in her youth. On the wall hung a photograph of Andrew in his graduation gown, beneath it a yellowed note: Ill be home soon, Mum. I promise.
Every Sunday she draped a fresh kerchief over her shoulders and shuffled to the post office, sending letters even though she knew no reply would ever come. She wrote about her garden, the frost, the neighbours cow, always ending with the familiar line: Take care, my son. Mum loves you.
The postwoman would often say, Aunt Martha, Torontos a world away not every letter gets through.
Martha would smile, If the post cant find its way, God will pave the road.
Seasons slipped past like turning pages. Spring melted into autumn, and Martha grew older as quietly as a candle that dwindles without a plume of smoke. Each night, as she doused the oil lamp, she whispered, Goodnight, Andrew. Mum loves you.
In December a parcel arrived, not from his address but from an unfamiliar hand.
Dear Mrs. Martha,
My name is Elise. I am Andrews wife. He spoke of you often, but I hesitated to write. Forgive the timing Andrew fell ill. He fought with every ounce of strength, then slipped away peacefully, clutching your photograph. His last breath was a whisper:
Tell Mum Im heading home, that Ive missed her every day.
I am sending you a box of his things.
With all our love,
Elise.
Martha read the letter in the hush of the firelight, her eyes fixed on the dancing flames, her mouth unmoving. The next morning neighbours saw her lug a battered cardboard box up the winding lane. She opened it slowly, as if fearing the world might shatter anew. Inside lay a blue shirt, a tiny notebook of scribbled thoughts, and an envelope stamped For Mum.
She trembled as she unfolded the paper, which smelled of foreign winters and distant grief.
Mum,
If youre reading this, I didnt make it. I worked, saved pennies, but I never bought what truly matters time. I missed you each morning when the snow fell. I dreamed of your voice, of the scent of your stew. I may not have been the perfect son, but I loved you in silence. I tucked a handful of earth from our garden into my shirt pocket; it stays with me always. When things get hard, I hear you say, Endure, lad, this too shall pass.
If I never return, do not weep. Im here in the wind, in your dreams, in the quiet. Im already home, Mum. You neednt open any more doors.
With love,
Your Andrew.
Martha pressed the letter to her breast, tears slipping out like dew, quiet as a mothers grief when the one she waits for will never arrive, yet still holds love for the one who has gone. She washed the shirt, hung it to dry, ironed it flat, and draped it over the back of his favourite armchair by the table. From that night onward she never ate alone.
One frostbitten February evening the postwoman found Martha asleep in the chair, a letter clutched in her hand, a steaming mug beside her, a serene smile curving her lips. The blue shirt lay across the arm, as if embracing her. Villagers say that night the wind fell silent over the hamlet. No dog barked, no nightingale sang, no footstep echoed. The village hushed, as though someone finally returned home.
Perhaps Andrew kept his word, perhaps he came back in a way no one could see. Promises, after all, do not die; they settle softly amid snow and tears. A house is not merely bricks and timber; sometimes it is the meeting that a heart has awaited all its life.
