SchmidtA1213

====**“Dear Martha, I have missed your tender kisses when I come home from the harbor. I miss the smell of your auburn hair, each little curl. I miss the children’s voices as they run through the house (even though you would yell at them to slow down, I know you loved it). Amelia must be the spitting image of you now, all grown up and innocent as a robin. Tell her that Daddy misses her and is coming home soon. Oh, I cannot remember if you recall Hons Uper from down the street? Well he was the casualty of yesterday’s battle, run through with the bayonet of the enemy. I would like it if you could tell his parents of his death before they send the soldiers home and also give this pendant to his girl, he had it made for her… Martha this war cannot last forever, and I promise to bring you the finest blue dress from Clarks shop. I love you with all my heart and wish I was back home in your arms. – John K. Spatin”. **====
 * The night begins to rise as it chases away the day. The cries of the children die down as their mothers come home and kiss their grimy foreheads. The moans of the elderly carry across the fog rolling in from the bay. The sighs of the exhausted; trying to provide for the family that never comes home. I hear Martha get home at two am. I can hear her trying to get her keys in the door that creaks with the slightest touch. I put on my shawl, a mix of orange, red and green wool, making my skin warm with its fuzzy touch. I brace myself for the feeling of cold that will wash across my face as I click the door shut behind me. There she still stands, she barely notices as I come up behind her. Martha Spatin is the woman I see, she used to be a raging beauty; now she fumbles with her keys with a frail, trembling hand. She tries to get the key in the hole but with no luck. I tentatively take the keys and slide it into place. With a jerk of my wrist the door lock pops. The paint comes off the door as I hold it open for her, she stumbles through the door as the smell of mildew, cognac and old perfume waft past; making my nose tingle and my head ache. She beckons me in, not realizing or caring that I have to cover my nose and stifle my breath. She sits in her quilt covered rocker; the creak of her tired bones become louder as she lowers herself into the seat. Martha begins to rock slowly, entrancing herself, thinking back upon the life she lived. I lock the door behind me and watch the paint fall to the floor; I don’t believe there was a coat of paint on this door since 1897 when John Spatin was alive. He was the one to take care of Martha, he was the one to hold the door open, and he was the one who drank the cognac on Sunday afternoons. A smile spreads across my face as I sink into his chair. Old and wooden, it has a simple velvet cushion; the same color as his daughter Amelia’s hair. She is the one that comes home now, but not every night. She works for Martha’s life; she is the one keeping her alive. She sells herself every night, to any man, just to put food on the table. She comes home around four am, tired enough to not realize I am even here. In a daze she trudges past me, unbuttoning her shirt the other half of the way and kicking off her shoes at the door. The smile that I have been holding now vanishes as I think of what might have happened to Amelia tonight. Stale perfume stings at my eyes as I turn towards Martha. Taking the letter that is between us I open it, the wax seal crumbling into little red dots on the floor. “Martha” I whisper, she doesn’t even look my way. I loop my hand in hers rubbing the ice away from her bones.**
 * At the end of this letter was a little heart pendant, made of silver with an heart made of amber. I closed my hand around it, feeling its chilled outline and the smell of war that stained the page of the letter never opened. All of a sudden the heart began to burn into my palm, singeing a dark brown heart into my hand and into my mind. I scream out in pain but cannot drop the heart. Martha keeps rocking as if nothing is happening, tears roll down my face as the burning intensifies, but not in my hand anymore, it crumbles into my gut, making my stomach turn and my throat burn of acid. Gasping I fall out of the chair, clutching my stomach with my good hand. My mind races as the sound of gun shots and men falling to the frozen ground etch into my mind. “Hons! Hons!” I hear someone calling, I start to recognize the name as being my own! “My name is Rose! I’m not Hons!” I hear it in my rasp of a voice. The gruff voices of soldiers around me shout, "medic, we need a medic!". Soldiers fall to their knees, blood bubbling up from some deep place inside them and settling on their lips. The eyes, the horror of looking into their eyes; the color of them, they seem so blank and empty. My hand moves to my chest, a sharp pain cracks within me as my finger finds the hole made by the bayonet. Johns face comes into view, the look of terror in his eyes tells me all I need to know, he falls right before me, clamping his hands upon my chest; the blood keeps bubbling up. "give this to my girl back home, please?" I hear my trembling words. A hot tear burns down his face as he takes it from my pants pocket. He puts it to my lips as to kiss it and wipes off the blood. " I promise that she will get it, and if it does not, the person that does will pay dearly". John kisses my forehead like he did when I was a child and puts it in his pocket, the lights begin to dim and finally go black.**
 * The smell of Cognac, hardwood floors and mildew hit me. I am back in the house with Martha, she is still rocking back and forth, like she never stopped. “You should have let it be Rose, you should have let it be” are the last words I hear before my heart becomes as cold and smooth as the amber held inside my hand. They happen to be Martha’s words and the roll of the rocker is intertwined with them.**