Creative Pieces: The Soldier's Wife

The Soldier’s Wife

If I wrote you one story, I’d have to write you a thousand. I’d write you a story in the Winter time, when it is windy and raining and cold outside. You would be sitting by the fire in that enormous armchair with a coffee mug in one hand and a book on your lap, your other hand would be resting in my hair because I would be sitting on a cushion at your feet, learning to crochet and daydreaming about flames dancing romantically.

I’d write you a story in the Spring, when the sky is blue and rambunctious white clouds chase each other across the sky. We’d be sitting on a picnic blanket making tiny houses out of carrot sticks and telling each other tales about the tiny people that lived inside them. I’d tell you that Miss Snow-pea was in love with Mister Celery-Stick, but her father didn’t approve. And you’d tell me that Mister Celery-Stick would ask her to marry him anyway because he couldn’t bear to live without her, and he would build her the biggest carrot house in town where they could raise their kids. And then you would eat Mister Celery-Stick in one munch, I’d have to eat Miss Snow-pea too, because she’d never cope without her love.

I’d write you a story in the Summer time, when the sky is totally clear and the weather is scorching. You’d be packing the esky and your surfboard into the van and yelling out questions like “Have you packed the sunscreen?” and “Have you seen my green boardies?” I’d tell you yes and they’re in the bag with the towels. And then I’d come out carrying my sun lounger which you’d take from me and fling in the back before you would swing me up into your arms and say “You know, I think this Summer is going to be the best ever.” And you’d kiss me like we wouldn't get another.

I’d write you a story in Autumn, when the mornings are colder, but the nights are balmy and the leaves clog up the gutters. You’d be packing your clothes into your big khaki green canvas bag while I leaned against the door watching you. Your hair would be shorter than it was in the Summer, and your eyes wouldn’t be smiling so much. I’d walk up behind you and put my arms around your waist, and you’d say “It’s only six months; I’ll be home before you know it.” And I’d believe you, mostly. You’d turn around in my arms and I’d close my eyes and you’d kiss me because you wouldn’t be able to for a long time after that.

I’d write you a story in safe places and strong houses. I’d write you a story in my arms. I’d write you a story in sunshine and clear skies. I’d write you a story with family and friends. I’d write you a story about walking down an aisle. I’d write you a story about waves and beaches. I’d write you a story about holding my hand, and I’ll write you a thousand stories until you’re home again.