Dolls & Magic

                                                                                                                             July, 1908

     In my time of dying, I feel compelled to document the following tale as it occurred to me on a stormy night over forty years ago. This was when I started to die.

     Prior to the night of which I write, my Johnny and I had been wed in a heartbeat before he was rushed off to war on a wagon train heading north into the night.

     He haunted my thoughts and my dreams for many moons thereafter, and letters he sent by the score written on dampened old newspapers, brown bags and such. In these letters he documented his travels and struggles, always optimistic, brave and promising. These letters were my hope.

     I was only seventeen at that time, and he was the only love I had ever known. I could almost smell his skin and feel the frisk of the soft whiskers on his face. His cool blue eyes stared across the broken states through time and starlight to find me lying awake and waiting.

     Then one happy day it came! Johnny's letter saying that he had been wounded but recovered and was coming home to me. I didn't sleep much those nights thereafter in the waiting.

     The night of the storm found me awakened from my restless sleep with a start; thunder banged in the distance. The rain pelted down heavily against the roftop, and a gust burst in through the swinging shutters.

     Then the banging outside the door. Johnny! My heart screamed, and I ran down the stairs without slippers or robe through the darkness.

     Throwing open the door, there he stood, all dripping and white. The shoes were worn off his feet, and his eyes looked far off. I pulled him to me, clutching, not to let go; but something had changed.

     Of course he was thin and cold, a mere shadow of the boy who had left me, but something more. The love was there; I could feel its hum, but the electricity had been grounded. His warm smell had been replaced with the smell of the earth, moss, and soil. These things didn't mean much to me at the time though; I was so thankful to have him home.

     Alice Bailey's beau had died of pneumonia, and Janie Weathergrey's took a slug in the head. People all about town, myself included, rushed to read the papers and death rosters. A great fear and suspense hung over the waiting crowds; friends and family clung together for shelter and support. No news was a merciful tiding when your neighbor was wailing, and your cousin's legs were giving out from under her. The strong wind of fear could not be quelled. But my Johnny had come home!

     I took him to bed with me that night, and he held me through a sound sleep.

     In the morning he was gone. The bed, the rug, were damp and dirty, but my Johnny was not to be found. I wandered the house looking and figured that he must have gone home.

     Then the telegram came: simple and straight, it stated:

                                                                          July 2, 1863

Dear Mrs. Gray:

     I am regretful to inform you that your husband has passed away due to complications in the removal of his right arm. The infections spread quickly. There was nothing we could do. His remains may be sought after in Cashtown, Pennsylvania. He fought courageously, and his dying wish was to see you one last time.

                                                            With my condolence,

                                                             Colonel W. Hampton

     There was too, a small package containing a small battered tin-type, photograph of myself, an old soiled handkerchief, one of our love letters, and a lock of my curls, all of which I still have in my possession.

     I went on to remarry, have children and grandchildren, but that night has haunted me always. I never saw my Johnny again, and the family never could find his remains. And now I return to you, my lost soldier to my soul...

                                                             Virginia G. Lincoln