both in soft light; NPR murmured from an upstairs radio, where she’d forgotten to turn it off. This big, dear young man was here, was so physically here, in existence, in his faded black White Sox T-shirt and cheap deodorant fumes, that it seemed impossibly wrong to be planning for a theoretical time when he might not be.
Ellen pulled a brochure out of the stack of papers he was sorting through. Letters to Your Service Member. She skimmed the advice that came in boxes next to photographs of beaming parents, arms slung around uniformed young men and women. Receiving a letter from home is the best part of a soldier’s day. Take care that your words ENCOURAGE and UPLIFT him or her. Leave out all complaints and worries. Remind your soldier that YOU ARE PROUD of him or her, and that YOU BELIEVE IN THE GOOD WORK he or she is doing. Below is a sample letter you may wish to …
“This is embarrassing. I’m actually embarrassed on the military’s behalf.”
Mike peered over the page. “Whatever, they just give us all this crap.”
“Do they actually think parents will copy a preset letter written by some functionary? To mail to their child? I thought propaganda was meant for the enemies.”
“Toss it. Now, this is—”
“And this capitalization … What are we, morons? I know you don’t expect me to write how I BELIEVE IN THE GOOD WORK you’re doing.”
Mike sighed and tried to tug the brochure away from her. “Letters are overrated anyway. That’s like, a holdover from World War II. ‘Dear Mother, Though the bombs are falling, I can picture our farm…’” He snickered.
Ellen yanked it back. “Don’t joke about that. Don’t say letters aren’t important! Of course I’m going to write you—we all are. And you’d better write back, ” she said, wishing she hadn’t brought it up. A fearful memory of Mike dragging his feet about even the most undemanding compositions …
“Right. Pages and pages about Maisie and Edith Wharton. And am I staying out of trouble.”
“What—what would you like me to write about?” A sudden shyness fell between them.
He swirled the last inch of beer around in his beer bottle. “Whatever. Just—you do your thing. I’ll write back, obviously.” He glanced up at Ellen.
“I want to write something you’ll look forward to. Not some pro forma thing about the weather.”
“Tell me, like…” He shook his head.
“What?”
“Stories about you guys. About us.”
Ellen held back her excitement, a dozen questions: Old stories? New ones? Those you know, or…? He was staring hard at the papers in front of him. She wouldn’t push it, but an idea bloomed. What she could do, with writing, for him.
“What’s this?” She unwrapped a piece of red felt cloth, rolled into a tube. It was a banner about a foot long, attached to a wooden dowel with a gold tasseled cord. On its front, a white velvet rectangle with a blue star in its center. Included in the packet was a suction cup hook and a piece of paper: Rules for Proper Display of Service Flag. “I see I’m supposed to hang this in the front window.” Ellen tried to picture herself doing that. And if anyone noticed it—the postman, the cleaning woman—would they even know what it meant? Outdated and maudlin, she thought, repulsed.
“I don’t know what all this crap is, I’m just supposed to give it to you. Junk it for all I care. What else? Oh, right. They want us to hand over copies of birth certificates and Social Security cards, so…”
“I do have these, upstairs. But it’s good to keep all of this together.” She unfolded the birth certificate copy and they both stared at it in silence. Proof of Live Birth. Michael Cacciarelli , infant: male. Date: November 23, 1975. Mother: Renee Milio . Father: unspecified.
“Not a lot of relevant info there,” Mike said. He bounced a knee up and down, finished the beer.
“Would you like to … give at least some of this to your aunt? Or I can make copies
Ellen pulled a brochure out of the stack of papers he was sorting through. Letters to Your Service Member. She skimmed the advice that came in boxes next to photographs of beaming parents, arms slung around uniformed young men and women. Receiving a letter from home is the best part of a soldier’s day. Take care that your words ENCOURAGE and UPLIFT him or her. Leave out all complaints and worries. Remind your soldier that YOU ARE PROUD of him or her, and that YOU BELIEVE IN THE GOOD WORK he or she is doing. Below is a sample letter you may wish to …
“This is embarrassing. I’m actually embarrassed on the military’s behalf.”
Mike peered over the page. “Whatever, they just give us all this crap.”
“Do they actually think parents will copy a preset letter written by some functionary? To mail to their child? I thought propaganda was meant for the enemies.”
“Toss it. Now, this is—”
“And this capitalization … What are we, morons? I know you don’t expect me to write how I BELIEVE IN THE GOOD WORK you’re doing.”
Mike sighed and tried to tug the brochure away from her. “Letters are overrated anyway. That’s like, a holdover from World War II. ‘Dear Mother, Though the bombs are falling, I can picture our farm…’” He snickered.
Ellen yanked it back. “Don’t joke about that. Don’t say letters aren’t important! Of course I’m going to write you—we all are. And you’d better write back, ” she said, wishing she hadn’t brought it up. A fearful memory of Mike dragging his feet about even the most undemanding compositions …
“Right. Pages and pages about Maisie and Edith Wharton. And am I staying out of trouble.”
“What—what would you like me to write about?” A sudden shyness fell between them.
He swirled the last inch of beer around in his beer bottle. “Whatever. Just—you do your thing. I’ll write back, obviously.” He glanced up at Ellen.
“I want to write something you’ll look forward to. Not some pro forma thing about the weather.”
“Tell me, like…” He shook his head.
“What?”
“Stories about you guys. About us.”
Ellen held back her excitement, a dozen questions: Old stories? New ones? Those you know, or…? He was staring hard at the papers in front of him. She wouldn’t push it, but an idea bloomed. What she could do, with writing, for him.
“What’s this?” She unwrapped a piece of red felt cloth, rolled into a tube. It was a banner about a foot long, attached to a wooden dowel with a gold tasseled cord. On its front, a white velvet rectangle with a blue star in its center. Included in the packet was a suction cup hook and a piece of paper: Rules for Proper Display of Service Flag. “I see I’m supposed to hang this in the front window.” Ellen tried to picture herself doing that. And if anyone noticed it—the postman, the cleaning woman—would they even know what it meant? Outdated and maudlin, she thought, repulsed.
“I don’t know what all this crap is, I’m just supposed to give it to you. Junk it for all I care. What else? Oh, right. They want us to hand over copies of birth certificates and Social Security cards, so…”
“I do have these, upstairs. But it’s good to keep all of this together.” She unfolded the birth certificate copy and they both stared at it in silence. Proof of Live Birth. Michael Cacciarelli , infant: male. Date: November 23, 1975. Mother: Renee Milio . Father: unspecified.
“Not a lot of relevant info there,” Mike said. He bounced a knee up and down, finished the beer.
“Would you like to … give at least some of this to your aunt? Or I can make copies
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