by Beate Sigriddaughter

What were the happiest years of my life? That’s easy. It was those seven years I was engaged to your father. As you probably remember, I was nineteen when I met him. I was smitten. He was too. Then we got secretly engaged. And that’s when the romance started. Your grandfather was not impressed when they first met. He called Willy a vagabond. But Willy had only taken off a year to travel, to see something of the world. At times he traveled with a friend, other times on his own. Your grandmother liked him better, presumably because he had good matters, and he knew how to flatter her. He stayed at our farm for three weeks in October, helping with the potato crop and taking care of the cows. He would have stayed longer, but Father decided he didn’t have any more work for a traveling fellow. Which was not true; he simply wanted to get Willy off the farm because it was pretty obvious how taken I was. So, Willy moved on. He kept taking all kinds of odd jobs and stayed in many different places. Almost everywhere else he was more welcome than at our farm. He wanted to see different places, however, and so he kept on moving.

He promised to write to me, and he did. Because I didn’t want your grandfather to know how many letters I was getting, I had Willy address his letters to the post office in the next town over. I’d bicycle there once or twice a week, and there was almost always a new letter, sometimes even two. I’m not sure you can do this anymore these days, but back then it was possible. I could write to him the same way, to whatever town he thought he was going to be next. I was convinced that I kept all this a big secret from your grandfather, though nowadays I’m not so sure. He probably knew all along. I mean, word does get around, and if a young woman from a neighboring town comes all the time to pick up mail, it’s probably common gossip. But I believed I was safe in my private dealings, and I could dream a future with Willy to my heart’s content.

And did I ever dream! Our future was going to be wonderful. When he went back to studying, he too had a fixed address again, and we could now write to each other regularly. Sort of like kids today write each other emails. Or texts. Our often daily letters were longer than your typical email or text, however, and they were full of plans. I thrived on the intensity of those dreamy letters. He was going to finish his studies and as soon as he could afford to, he would ask your grandfather for my hand and then marry me. We were going to make love at least once a day, have at least four children, and live a fairy tale life.

Instead, the war started. I wanted to marry him before he had to go, and this time your grandfather relented, after listening to my probably unnecessary confession that we’d been corresponding for the last seven years which proved that we were in a serious and lasting relationship. And we were. When William passed away, we had been married for fifty-four years. They were good years, and we were both grateful for everything that came our way, including you four children. But the magic of those seven years of waiting for each other never returned. Now instead of poetry and over the moon declarations of love, we bravely lived side by side discussing radishes for his supper sandwiches and bananas for breakfast. I suppose there is some poetry in fifty-four years of radishes, but it doesn’t quite amount to the kind of adoration I had been looking forward to. Maybe, too, I was simply more attractive on paper. I did miss the sweetness of the letter writing years, the spirit years. I remember. All my best love was conducted long-distance. The fifty-four years of reality tended to be more draining, and I was never very good at reality. Dreaming was easier.

Beate Sigriddaughter (www.sigriddaughter.net) lives in Silver City, New Mexico (Land of Enchantment), where she was poet laureate from 2017 to 2019. Her poetry and short prose are widely published in literary magazines. Recent book publications include a poetry collection, Wild Flowers, and a short story collection, Dona Nobis Pacem. In her blog, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, she publishes other women’s voices.