I trust you have received word from your parents about Charlie. They probably told you that my dear mama and uncle Fred also passed.
I just want you to know that I helped take care of Charlie when your father brought him over. My papa dressed him in his nicest clothes and I combed his hair and saw to it that he looked as though he had only just closed his eyes in sleep.
I put the baseball you and Charlie played with in his hands. And even though we’re not supposed to, we had a visitation here. So many people came. Today was a terrible day, but this one good thing happened—people came and kept coming to let us know Mama and Charlie and Uncle Fred had mattered.
I know you would’ve liked to be here. When the war is over and you come back, I will tell you anything about this day that you would like to know.
I don’t know what it will be like to not have my mother with me anymore. I only know that right now I feel like she wasn’t supposed to go. I thought Mama was stronger. I thought she would beat the flu like Willa did. I thought Uncle Fred had been wrong last night when he told me I needed to say my farewells. But it’s me that had it wrong. I had to say good-bye to Mama after she was already gone, while I combed the tangles out of her hair. She was so cold and stiff, like a statue. I don’t know if she heard me. But perhaps she saw me. Perhaps she was allowed a glimpse of me caring for her as she sailed up to heaven.
I’m so glad we have Alex—that’s what we named the baby I wrote you about. He is the opposite of the war and the flu. He is sweet and beautifuland alive. Alex is the war and the flu and death all turned upside down. When you come home, I will introduce you to him.
I pray for you every day, Jamie. I pray that you stay safe and that the Germans will be beat and that you can come home.
Yours very truly,
Maggie Bright
When I cap the pen, I hear the faint sound of the funeral car being started outside.
Papa and Roland Sutcliff are taking Mama and Charlie and Uncle Fred away.
