Margaret of My Heart
by Roman Griffen
I recall a legend that states if your picture is taken, your soul is captured in that picture. It was a woman in a picture who captured my soul. Not just my soul, but my heart and mind as well.
I sat at the head of the table staring over the flame-topped eight and zero candles on my cake and listened to them sing Happy Birthday. Each of them using the title by which they knew me: dad, uncle, grandpa, and to my friends, Theodore. I blew out the candles and everyone applauded. Through the rising smoke I saw flash after flash. Everyone had to have a picture of the momentous occasion. What I bet everyone didn’t know was it was just that - a picture - that was responsible for most of the people at my party.
It was the night before I was to leave for boot camp, 1942. My friend Raymond took me out to the local diner for my favorite treat: a piece of cherry pie and a vanilla milkshake. He noticed a girl he was sweet on come in with her girlfriend, and he got up and asked them to join us. They accepted. When Raymond got back, he sat next to me and the girls sat across from us. Raymond introduced me to the girls but with my nervous heart pounding and the noise of the diner, I didn’t hear either of their names and did not bother asking him to repeat them.
With my attention directed to my pie, Raymond carried the conversation like I knew he would. I awaited the usual knock from his elbow on mine if a response was expected from me but none came. After I finished my pie, I didn’t want to look up because I feared eye contact might be involved, so I reached for my milkshake without looking. I misjudged its location and forcefully knocked it over in the direction of the girls. By the time I looked up, with a face as red as the cherries I just ate, the girls were standing and all I saw were their blouses, sweaters, and skirts splattered with vanilla milkshake.
I grabbed a handful of napkins and started wiping the table of what little didn’t get on the girls. I apologized several times, but said it more towards the table than the girls. Raymond’s girl seemed very perturbed but her friend just laughed it off. The girls walked straight out as soon as they were clear of the table. One still in a fit, the other laughing. Raymond shook his head, snickered and said, “The typical Teddy blunder.” He then asked, “What are we going to do with you?” I just shrugged. He knew how I got with women around.
One week later at boot camp I received a letter from a Margaret Rishan. I didn’t know a girl by that name. I automatically thought it was the guys back home playing a joke on me. I sat on my bunk and chuckled as I opened the envelope, took out the letter and unfurled it with a flick of the wrist. It was definitely a girl’s handwriting. I knew more than a few girls who could have been put up to penning it. I began to read. Her name was Margaret, but her friends called her Maggie. She explained how she found out my name, where to write me and hoped I didn’t mind that she did. She told me some more about herself. The more I read the less I thought it was a joke but still started to wince as I neared the end because that is where the “We got ya!” would be. It ended with how she wished she could have talked to me that night and that she hoped her picture would ring a bell for me.
That night? What night? And picture. What picture? I looked on my bunk and then on the floor. The picture was on the floor between my feet and there she was, a beautiful angel staring up at me. Margaret Rishan. I picked up the picture and took a closer look. I had no idea who she was and then my heart dropped. I knew it was a joke. But at least they picked a beautiful woman! I laughed and for some reason looked at the back of the picture and saw the writing, “To: Theodore From: The girl who laughed when you spilled your milkshake on her. If you wish to keep in touch, please write back.”
Oh my goodness. She is interested in me? The girl I covered in vanilla milkshake? I lie back on my bunk, held her picture above me at arm’s length and said to her, “Margaret Rishan. Your friends call you Maggie. You wished you could have talked to me that night. If I wish to keep in touch, please write back.” I stared at her picture a little longer. “I wish.”
Moments later while composing two letters, just in case one got lost in the mail, I swore on everything holy that if this was a practical joke I was going to wring some necks when I got home. However, even my friends wouldn’t go this far. At least I hoped. I told her how happy I was that she wrote me and properly apologized to her about the milkshake. I suggested we not wait for replies to particular letters and to just keep writing. I wanted to know everything about her. Everything except why such a beautiful woman was interested in a bumbling fool like me.
She agreed that we should write each other as often as we could. It turned out we ended up writing each other every day. When I received several letters at once I would read the postmarks and open them in chronological order. Oh, how I looked forward to mail call! I could not wait to hear from her and then write her back. I would always smile when I read the end of her letters. She always ended them the same way: Until I see you again, and I will see you again, Theodore, Please take care
It took me awhile to notice that she never ended the last line with a period. I went back and looked at all her previous letters; I saved every one. In every letter she used no ending punctuation in that last sentence. By no means was I a grammarian, but I was curious about it and asked her. She informed me that we were just beginning and saw no reason to put an end to anything. She wanted everything between us to remain open and continuous. I couldn’t agree more because as ludicrous as it seemed, I was in love with her.
The mail was delayed too often for my taste and when it was I would re-read her old letters. Not just read them but learn how to feel them. She would write that she was tired, but I already knew. I saw how her penmanship would not be as crisp, her hand getting as heavy as her eyes. She would write how she had fantastic news, but I sensed her excitement a few lines back when it looked like the pen barely touched the page and her writing became more hurried. I felt every word, over and over, getting to know her more each time.
She sent me a few more pictures of her without my asking. When I was too tired to read her old letters I would stare at the pictures and into the eyes I had foolishly avoided that night. In the one picture, I saw how the sun painted itself on her hair and I longed to feel how warm and soft it was. I had a feeling the sun would not make her hair too hot to touch, but warm enough to melt the person who did touch it. I was jealous of the sun for knowing what it was like to caress her hair and I would curse the sun because of it. At night I would ask the moon, “Can you see Margaret? What is she doing? Do you also dare to caress her with your light?” I’d feel foolish and pause…then ask, “Can you tell me if anyone caresses her?” It never answered. It just stared back.
It rained my last day of boot camp but I did not care. I knew I would be able to go home for a little over a week before shipping off to the war in the Pacific. My jealousy of sunlight and moonlight would end. It was their turn to watch me with her. A picture of an angel was about to come to life. And come to life she did. I got off the plane and just like she said she would be, she was right at the gate. Six weeks of intense training did not prepare my legs for the sight of her. I could barely walk after I saw her. She came up to me, hugged me, kissed my cheek, put her arm in mine and we walked to her car. No words were spoken. None were needed.
The whole time I was home, other than going to bed at night, I cannot recall an instant that I was not with her. My parents would invite her over for dinner or her parents would invite me over. After dinner we would take long walks, maybe catch a movie or spend hours talking on her front porch swing. A few nights she was even brave enough to go to the diner with me for a milkshake.
We both knew where I was going when my leave was up, but we didn’t talk about it. But not talking about didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen. The saddest moment of my life awaited me, saying good-bye to her when I had just said hello. It’s funny. When I started boot camp I was not afraid to go to war. I was not afraid to die. I think it was because I had nothing to live for. But now I did.
The morning I left, Margaret cried as I held her. The longer I held her, the more nervous I became. I began to tremble. She looked at me puzzled. She asked why was I shaking. I gathered the courage and said it. I told her I loved her. She kissed me and told me she loved me too. I swore to her she would always be in my heart. I kissed her one last time, looked her straight in the eye and said, “I love you, dearest Margaret of my heart.”
That is how I would begin every letter to her from that moment on, “Dearest Margaret of my heart.” She would end hers the same way, still no punctuation mark but she would send her love. All of it. I didn’t tell her anything about the war and she didn’t ask about it. From our letters it was hard to tell there was even a war going on. However, something new in her letters showed me the war was very much on her mind.
Whole words on the page were replaced by ink fragments. Tears falling from above would shatter the words. I would sit and piece together their intended meaning. These were bombs I could not avoid and they found their way into my heart. I felt her worry. Her sadness. I would fold these letters and as I put them back in the envelope, I’d assure her, “Don’t worry, Maggie. I’ll be home.”
Seven months after I left for the war, it was a bomb I couldn’t quite take cover from that ended my part in the conflict. My leg was broken so badly I needed several operations to repair it. I spent the remainder of my enlistment in a hospital bed. After it was all said and done, my leg was far from 100% but I looked at the bright side, at least I still had it and more importantly, I was going home.
I had walked away from Margaret a man in love. I may have limped back, but I was more in love and not empty handed upon my return. I spent every last red cent I had on the biggest diamond I could afford. Maggie accepted my proposal. We had two sons, two daughters, some ups, some downs, and I can honestly say I wouldn’t trade any of it for all the money in the world.
And yes, it was all from a picture. This year Maggie would have had a seven and an eight on her cake. To those who would have sung to her she would be mom, grandmom, aunt,… . To me, she was my wife, my lover and my friend. My best friend.
And so Maggie, until I see you again, and I will see you again, I’ll continue to look at the picture you sent me oh so many years ago. I will no longer be jealous of the sun or the moon for I know that you are above them both, and only fellow angels could possibly touch your hair. I enjoy being who I am. I enjoy being dad and grandpa. But on my birthday, and every day before and after, I miss being your husband. I miss you, my love. My one, my only, dearest Margaret of my heart