Andrew, pull on your cap, my boy, the chill out there is bitter!
Dont fret, Mother, Im not shivering in the Scottish hills, Ill manage just fine, he replied, his voice bright with youthful certainty. Those were his last words before he left.
He boarded a coach to London, and from there, after a long seacrossing, he set sail for Canada. He promised to be back in two years. Twelve winters passed.
Mary, his mother, remained in the little cottage she had inherited from her own parents. The same lace curtains fluttered in the draft, the same iron stove crackled in the evenings, and the same rug she had woven as a girl still lay on the floor. On the wall hung a photograph of Andrew in his graduation gown, beneath it a yellowed note that read, Ill be home soon, Mother. I swear it.
Every Sunday Mary donned a fresh kerchief and walked to the post office. She penned letters about the garden, the biting frost, the neighbours cow, even though she knew no reply would ever arrive. Each letter ended with the same tender line: Take care, my son. Mother loves you.
Sometimes the postmistress would offer a sympathetic sigh,
Mrs. Mary, Canada is a long way off not every letter makes the journey.
Never mind, dear. If the post cant deliver, God will find the way, Mary would answer.
The years slipped by, spring turning to autumn, autumn to winter, and Mary grew older as quietly as a candle dimming without a sudden flare. Each night, as she snuffed out the oil lamp, she whispered,
Goodnight, Andrew. Mother loves you.
In a December that seemed unusually still, a parcel arrived, not from her son but from a stranger.
Dear Mrs. Mary,
My name is Eliza. I am Andrews wife. He often spoke of you, but I never gathered the courage to write. Forgive my tardiness Andrew fell ill. He fought with every ounce of strength he had, then slipped away peacefully, his hand still clutching your photograph. His last breath carried these words:
Tell Mother I am going home. I have missed her every day.
I enclose a box of his things.
With all our love,
Eliza.
Mary read the letter in silence, then sat by the hearth, staring into the fire, words caught in her throat. The next morning the neighbours saw her carry a small wooden crate home. She opened it slowly, as if fearing the grief might rush back too quickly.
Inside lay:
a navy blue shirt,
a tiny notebook filled with hurried scribbles,
and an envelope stamped simply, For Mother.
Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the paper. The ink smelled of distant winters and a melancholy that had travelled across oceans.
Mother,
If you are reading this, I have not made it back. I worked, I saved, but I never learned the hardest truth time cannot be bought. I missed you each morning when the snow fell. I still hear your voice and the scent of your stew in my dreams. I may not have been the perfect son, but know this: I loved you always, in the quietest way.
In the pocket of my shirt I kept a clod of earth from our garden. It stays with me. When the world feels heavy, I think of you and hear you say,
Hold fast, my boy, this too shall pass.
If I do not return, do not weep. I am near in the wind, in your dreams, in the hush.
I am already home, Mother. The doors need not be opened any longer.
With love,
your Andrew.
Mary pressed the letter to her heart and wept a soft, soundless sob, the kind mothers shed when the waiting ends but the love endures. She washed the shirt, hung it to dry, pressed it, and finally draped it over the back of his wooden chair at the kitchen table. From that day she never ate alone again.
One February night the postmistress found Mary asleep in her armchair, a letter clasped in her hand, a steaming mug on the table, and a calm smile upon her face. The navy shirt lay folded on the chair as if embracing her. The villagers say that on that night the wind died down in the hamlet; no dog barked, no rooster crowed, no footstep disturbed the quiet. The village seemed to hold its breath, as if someone finally returned home.
Perhaps Andrew kept his promise. Perhaps he did come back, though not in the body the world expects. Some vows never die; they fulfill themselves in whispers of snow and tears. For a home is not merely walls and roofs sometimes it is the meeting we have awaited all our lives.
