Letter To An Unknown Soldier

Chelsea Asher

Dear William,

I know I should have written you sooner. A lot sooner, in fact. I would say time got away from me, but we both know that not to be true now.

I’d like to think you understand, just as always, why I did what I did. You were the old sweater in my closet, the one that’s soft and warm and just fits perfectly. I loved you. I love you now, still. And I feel that you must have loved me in your own sort of quiet way.

I know even now you’d roll your eyes at me for bringing it up. You’d slap my knee and tell me to, “Zip it, Annie-pants!” and then you’d grin at me. That stretched, wide open, melon wedge smile. But I have to bring her up. Naomi.

When I saw you two that night – on your birthday – I knew. I’d gone outside to find you with a slice of the cake your mother had baked. When I saw you, round the side of the house, I stopped. You’d wrapped an arm around her waist and Naomi laughed and pushed you away, but only gently. And then you both sat there, on the side steps, only just lit by the horrible glow from the windows above. And you had your first kiss with someone who wasn’t me.

I know, Will. I never said anything until now, and you must be surprised. But then you are probably used to the surprise after I gave you that feather.

All those girls who had addressed you with one, and only mine could send you to war.

We hadn’t spoken since that night – at the time, I just wanted you gone. I wanted to hurt you and Naomi and to make it all disappear. At least until Christmas. At least until then. That’s when the war would be over, and by then you would have forgotten all about Naomi and it would be just you and me again. And I suppose it was.

Naomi cried that day you left. It’s funny, I never really thought about what the white feathers meant until you were gone. They’re a symbol of a poor fighter – a coward. But I think we both know that when I handed you one, I was really giving it to myself.

Your mother still invites me round for tea, every Tuesday since that afternoon you left. She’s still a second mother to me – and mostly, we like to talk about you and what you could have been. She doesn’t know about the feather, or any of it.

Like how the hole got in your lounge wall, or where we buried those awful shorts she tried to make you wear when you were eight – it’s a secret that will just remain between the two of us, like always.

Always and always,
Your Annie

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