Interlude - My Little Soldier
Lydia Walker keeps leaving blue flowers at her son’s grave. Day after day, she brings forget-me-nots and stares at them blankly, trying to match their shade to the color of her son’s eyes. When she got the news that she’d lost her only boy, all she was able to see in her mind’s eye was that specific shade of blue that not even the flowers quite capture. It’s a color that exists now in her head and her head alone.
Thomas James Walker; beloved son, soldier, and artist; Sept 7th 1898 - July 7th 1917
She still can’t believe he’s gone. He was barely more than a boy. She still remembers holding him for the first time, knowing he was about to become the most important thing in her life. It was just her with him, her little beacon of hope.
He was so creative, so caring, so dedicated. She remembers the drawings he was constantly making since he turned 12. So many of them are on the walls in her home, and so many more are in sketchbooks that were filled with life over the years. She would come home to find him sitting comfortably in a chair, just drawing. Always drawing.
She will never come home to such a sight again.
Lydia closes her eyes, feeling the summer breeze on her face. It’s starting to get colder.
Soon it will be her first Christmas without him. Soon it will be September 7th, and yet he will not turn 19 like she always thought he would.
Lydia throws her arms around his tombstone and hugs herself to it, pressing a kiss to the top of the rock like she used to kiss his head. Then, she lets the tears fall.
“Were you scared?” she whispers, trying to picture him in her mind. “Were you afraid?”
Her baby. All Lydia wants is her baby.
“... I should’ve been there. I should’ve protected you.”
She knows it wouldn’t change anything if she were there, but she likes to imagine it would.
“Do you remember when you were little? I took you to that play, and you were so excited. You’d never seen the city before. You kept wanting to go back, so I pooled together the money to take you to galleries and performances and museums. It made you so happy.”
The grieving mother lets herself smile a little, remembering his awkward little grin.
“And then there was the time you came running home to me with your face bleeding, and I took you to the doctor. You were such a brave boy there. My little hero.”
She should’ve known she was going to lose him when the war started and he was 15. She should’ve known he wouldn’t come back safe and sound like he’d promised. She should’ve stopped him.
He was her baby. Her stubborn, sweet, shy, selfless baby.
“I’m sorry. I should’ve tried harder.”
In truth, Lydia knows she tried her absolute hardest, but nothing feels like enough anymore without him. He’s gone, and her world has gone with him.
It is quiet. The sun on her back feels almost mockingly warm, like it’s pretending to be the warmth of his hand when she knows it isn’t. His hands are cold now. He is quiet. He is still.
She can’t find it in herself to be angry. She can’t even find it in herself to beg for him to come home to her. Lydia didn’t keep the two of them afloat on frivolous wishes.
“Oh, my little soldier, I miss you so much.”
Her voice barely makes a sound after all the crying and wailing she’s done.
A little hand tugs at her sleeve.
Lydia looks up into the eyes of a young child, maybe six or seven years old, with deep green eyes and messy brown hair. A boy, who kneels down next to her and puts some freshly picked daisies down next to her forget-me-nots. As much as she’s caught up in the throes of grief, Lydia’s motherly instincts immediately push the question “Where are your parents?” to the front of her mind. There aren’t many wandering children here in Rye.
“Hello there,” she says very softly, wiping away tears from her tired eyes. Her blue must seem so dull compared to their vibrancy. “Do you need something? Are you lost?”
The little boy shakes his head. “My mummy is over there, with my brother,” he says in a small voice, pointing across the cemetery to a woman older than Lydia is, knelt with similar grief in front of a headstone.
He adjusts his position and sits criss-cross-applesauce on the grass, staring at the daisies and forget-me-nots with soft eyes that remind her of her own son. She sits up straighter, folding her hands in her lap and shifting her focus onto him. “Shouldn’t you be with her? You shouldn’t wander too far, you know.”
“It’s not far. I can still see her.”
The kid is correct. Lydia tries to come up with something else to say. When she can’t, he speaks again.
Lydia feels like it should be obvious, but she’s learned enough from raising her own child to understand that little ones think differently from adults sometimes. “Oh… Me?” she asks softly. “Nothing much. Just… visiting my son.”
“My mum, too. What’s this say?”
The child reaches out and traces the lettering on the headstone with a reverent little finger. Perhaps he’s still learning to read. His touch gently traces the words below the name.
“... It says ‘beloved son, soldier, and artist.’”
The little finger traces the name that’s been on loop in her head ever since she got the news that he was gone.
The big green eyes are staring at her, the expression genuine.
“... Thomas. His name is Thomas.”
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