Andrew, pull your woolly hat on, love, its freezing out there!
Leave it, mum, if I didnt freeze in Transylvania, I wont freeze here!
Those were my last words before he walked out the door.
He boarded a coach bound for Liverpool and, from the dock, set sail across the Atlantic to Canada. He swore hed be back in two years. Twelve winters have come and gone.
I have never left this old cottage. The same coalburner stove, the same faded curtains, the same rug I wove when I was twenty. On the wall hangs a photograph of Andrew in his graduation gown. Beneath it a yellowed scrap of paper reads: Ill be back soon, Mum. I promise.
Every Sunday I drape my kerchief over my shoulders and stroll to the post office. I send a letter, fully aware Ill never get a reply. I tell him about the vegetable patch, the chill, the neighbours dairy cow. I always finish with the same line: Take care, my boy. Mum loves you.
Sometimes the postwoman, Mrs. Brown, says gently, Mrs. Margaret, perhaps not all letters make it Canada is a long way off.
I smile and answer, It matters not, dear. If the mail cannot carry them, God will.
Time moves differently here. Springs bloom and fade, autumn leaves carpet the lanes. I age slowly, like a candle that dims without a sound. Each night, before I extinguish the oil lamp, I murmur, Good night, Andrew. Mum loves you.
On a bleak December morning a letter arrived. It was not from him, but from a stranger.
Dear Mrs. Margaret,
My name is Ethel. I am Andrews wife. He spoke of you often, though I never found the courage to write. Forgive my intrusion Andrew fell ill. He fought as best he could, but he passed peacefully, his photograph clasped in his hands. His last words were, Tell my mother Im coming home. Ive missed her every day.
I am sending a box of his belongings.
With all our love,
Ethel
I read the letter in a hush, then sat by the stove, motionless, for a long while. The next day the neighbours saw me carrying a battered box inside. I opened it slowly, as one would open an old wound. Inside lay: a blue shirt, a small notebook, and a sealed envelope addressed simply, For Mum. My hands trembled as I broke the seal. The paper smelled of snow and longing.
Mum,
If you are reading this, I arrived too late. I worked, saved, but I never understood the most important thingthat time cannot be bought. I missed you every morning when it snowed. I dreamed of your voice, your soup, our cottage. I may not have been a perfect son, but know this: I have loved you in silence all my life. I kept a handful of soil from our garden in the pocket of this shirt; I carry it wherever I go. When I can no longer hear your voice, I hear you whisper, Hold on a little longer, son. If I never return, do not weep. My love will find you in your dreams. I am home now, Mumthough I need not knock any longer.
With love,
Your son, Andrew
I pressed the letter to my chest, tears slipping quietly, as mothers do when the waiting ends but the love remains. I washed the shirt, ironed it, and draped it over the back of his favourite chair at the kitchen table. Since that day I have never eaten alone.
One cold February night the postwoman found me asleep in my armchair, the letter clasped in my hand, a mug of stillwarm tea on the table, a serene smile on my face. The blue shirt lay beside me as if giving a quiet hug. The neighbours whispered that the wind had died down that night, and the village fell into a hush, as if someone had finally come home.
Perhaps Andrew kept his promise. Perhaps he returned in another way. Some promises never truly die; they are fulfilled in silence, between tears and snowfall. Home is not always a placeit is often the reunion we have waited a lifetime for.
