We’re still talking to each other about not talking to each other. (This never happened)
She used to write to him, maybe 2 or 3 times a week. She used to tell him about home. How she was waiting for him. About rations. About the family next door. About the garden. About his family and friends and the life he’d left behind. The majority of letters were of no interest to anyone. -A ramble of daily chores, of routine, church and work. But for him, 14 months from home, it was everything. It was a contact to a different life. A better life. Of normality and love. They were letters of home and of life.
The letters were never read.
Due to poor mail distribution, the letters (all letters) arrived in one huge load. The day before, 3 soldiers had unsuccessfully attempted to escape, for which all men were punished. The eagerly awaited delivered letters were presented in front of the whole camp. Familiar handwriting, beige envelopes. Four matches destroyed them all. Curled paper, grey smoke, the smell of home burnt back into ashes of a previous life.
