14February2025
Dear Diary,
Mother always teased me, Put on your hat, lad, its bitter out there!
Id answer, Dont worry, Mum, I wont freeze in Yorkshire; Ill manage. Those were the last words she heard from me before I boarded the coach for London, and from there a ship to Halifax, Canada. I swore Id be back in two years. Twelve winters later the promise was still hanging in the air.
Mary stayed in the cottage we grew up in. The same lace curtains, the same coal stove, the same oilrug shed woven as a girl. On the wall hung a photograph of me in my graduation gown, and beneath it a yellowed note: Ill be home soon, Mum. I promise. Every Sunday she draped a fresh kerchief over her head and walked to the post office, sending letters even though she knew none would return. She wrote about the garden, the frosty mornings, the neighbours cow, and always closed with the same line: Take care, son. Mum loves you.
The postwoman would sigh, MrsMary, Canada is a long way off not every letter makes the journey.
Never mind, love, Id think of her saying, If the mail cant deliver, God will find a road.
Seasons turned, and Mary grew older in the soft, quiet way a candle flame dwindles without a sudden flare. Each night, as she snuffed the bedside lamp, she whispered, Goodnight, Andrew. Mum loves you.
In December a parcel arrived, not from me but from a woman I had never met.
Dear MrsMary,
My name is Eliza, Andrews wife. He often spoke of you, but I never found the heart to write before now He fell ill. He fought with all his strength, 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.
Mary read the letter in stunned silence, sat by the fire, stared into the embers, and said nothing. The next morning the neighbours saw her carry a battered cardboard box home. She opened it slowly, as if the very act might summon the pain anew. Inside lay a blue shirt, a small notebook of scribbled thoughts, and an envelope stamped For Mum.
Her hands trembled as she unfolded the note. The paper smelled of distant winters and longing.
Mum,
If youre reading this, I didnt make it. I worked, saved, yet missed the point time cannot be bought. I missed you each morning when snow fell, I dreamed of your voice and the scent of your stew. I may not have been the perfect son, but know I loved you in silence. I slipped a handful of earth from our garden into my shirt pocket; it stays with me. When things are hard, I hear you say, Hold on, lad, this will pass. If I never return, do not weep. Im close in the wind, in dreams, in quiet. Im already home, Mum. You neednt open any more doors.
Love,
Andrew.
Mary pressed the letter to her heart, tears slipping out softly, the kind mothers shed when there is no one left to wait for, yet still someone to love. She washed the shirt, dried it, ironed it, and draped it over the back of his favourite armchair by the kitchen table. From that day she never ate alone again.
One February evening the postwoman found her asleep in that chair, a warm mug on the table, a fresh letter in her hand, a gentle smile on her face. The blue shirt lay across the seat as if giving her an embrace. They say the wind died down in the village that night; no dogs barked, no birds sang, no sound at all. The hamlet fell silent, as if someone finally returned home. Perhaps Andrew kept his promise, perhaps he did return in another way.
Promises, Ive learned, do not die. They surface quietly, amidst snow and tears. A home is not merely walls and roof; sometimes its a meeting weve waited a lifetime for.
Lesson: Keep your words close, for they may travel farther than you ever could.
