Glory,
I’m writing to you because if I do not put pen to paper I will use my hands to pull my hair out. I’ve been so damn distracted. I haven’t been listening to the radio, and this morning, when I picked up the newspapers for the first time in days, the headlines are screaming about Tarawa. Heavy casualties, the general said. The American people must prepare themselves, he said.
I don’t know if anyone can prepare me. Tarawa, Tarawa, Tarawa. I keep repeating it in my head, a prayer to the gods of chance. Over a thousand dead. They said marines in the paper. Toby is USN. So it can’t be him lying dead on that beach. It can’t. Right? Oh, I want to crawl out of my skin.
I should imagine my relief when I find out it’s not him. I should picture my smile, feel the heaviness rise from my chest. It isn’t Toby. He is not among the dead.
Is it unforgivable to do this when Western Union is already busy readying telegrams? What universal force has deemed my family worthy of dispensation?
I’m disgusted with myself. But I want my Toby. It can’t be him. It can’t.
Pray for him, please, please,
Rita