Put on your hat, lad, its nippy out there!
Dont worry, Mum, Im not freezing in the Scottish Highlands Ill manage just fine!
Those were his last words before he walked out the door.
Andrew hopped on a coach to London, then caught a flight across the Atlantic to Canada. He swore hed be back in two years. Twelve years later the calendar read the same, only the dates had changed.
Mabel, his mother, kept to the old cottage at the edge of the village. The same lace curtains fluttered in the draught, the same iron stove crackled, the same handwoven rug lay beneath her feet the very one shed made as a girl. On the wall hung a photograph of Andrew in his graduation gown, and beneath it a yellowed note: Ill be back soon, Mum. I promise.
Every Sunday Mabel slipped on a clean kerchief and shuffled down to the post office. She mailed letters even though she knew no reply would ever come. She wrote about her garden, the bitter winter, the neighbours cow, and always signed off with the same words: Take care, son. Mum loves you.
Sometimes the postwoman, with a sympathetic smile, would say, Aunt Mabel, Canada is a long way off not all letters make it.
Mabel would chuckle, Oh, dear, if the post cant deliver, God will find a shortcut.
Seasons turned, spring into autumn, and Mabel aged quietly, like a candle burning low without a puff of smoke. Each night, as she doused the lamp, she whispered, Goodnight, Andrew. Mum loves you.
In December a parcel arrived, not from Andrew but from a stranger.
Dear Mrs. Mabel,
My name is Eliza. I am Andrews wife. He spoke of you often, but I never found the courage to write sooner. Forgive my tardiness Andrew fell ill. He fought with the strength he could muster, then slipped away peacefully, clutching your photograph. His last breath was a whisper: Tell Mum Im coming home, that Ive always missed her.
Im sending you a box of his things, with all our love,
Eliza.
Mabel opened the letter in silence, then settled by the hearth, staring into the flames without a word. The next morning neighbours saw her lug a battered cardboard box back to the cottage. She unwrapped it slowly, as if fearing another blow to the heart. Inside lay: a blue shirt, a tiny notebook of scribbled thoughts, and an envelope stamped For Mum.
Her hands trembled as she broke the seal. The paper smelled of foreign winters and distant longing.
Mum,
If youre reading this, I suppose I didnt make it. I worked, saved, but never bought the one thing you cant purchase time. I missed you every morning when the snow fell. I dreamed of your voice and the scent of stew. I may not have been the perfect son, but know this: I loved you, always, in my quiet way. I tucked a handful of earth from our garden into my shirt pocket; its with me wherever I go. When life gets hard, I hear you say, Hang on, lad, this will pass.
If I dont return, dont weep. Im still here in the wind, in dreams, in the hush. Im already home, Mum. The doors neednt be opened.
All my love,
Andrew.
Mabel pressed the letter to her chest, tears slipping down like gentle rain, not the shrieking sobs of mothers who have lost everything, but the quiet weeping of those who still have love to hold onto. She laundered the shirt, dried it, ironed it, and draped it over the back of his favourite armchair by the kitchen table. From that day onward she never ate alone.
One February evening the postwoman found Mabel asleep in that very chair, a letter folded in her hand, a mug of tea steaming on the table, a calm smile playing on her lips. The blue shirt lay across her shoulders as if giving a warm hug. They say that night the village wind fell still; no dogs barked, no birds sang, no sounds at all. The hamlet seemed to hold its breath, as if someone had finally turned the key and walked back home.
Perhaps Andrew kept his word after all just in a different sort of return. Promises, after all, do not die; they settle quietly amidst snow and tears. A house is not merely bricks and mortar; sometimes its a reunion waited for a lifetime.
