The Window

Rain trickled down the glass, glowing as the moonlight shone through it. I perched on the arm of the old, rugged chair, staring out the window. Behind me, someone padded in my direction, feet rasping on the sturdy, wooden floor. "Tara? Is that you?"

I turned around and saw my mother, slightly hunched over, and noticed silver lines in her once lovely, blonde hair. Turning back to the window, I remained silent. My eyes followed every movement outside in the night, every twitch in the grass and every sleek cat's leap. "What are you doing up so late, honey?"

"I'm waiting."

She smiled sadly. I could see how she had been pretty once, long before my four years. Her face had been smooth, smooth like mine, and her hair shining like the brightest gold. My mother loved to dance, and I could see she dreamed of being a ballerina again. She dreamed about many things when she slept at night, but mostly about dancing - dancing, and my father. Sometimes she worried that he was hurt, or cold, or lonely, or sad, and she often had terrifying nightmares where he was lying on the ground, covered in red. Now she sat down on the chair beside me, and I felt her eyes looking at me. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

I frowned, twisting the cloth of the curtains with my fingers. She never saw what I could see. "Daddy."

The sudden sadness that filled her sent vibrations in the air, and my skin tingled. "Why don't you go up to bed? Daddy can visit you while you sleep."

I didn't dream. I only walked in the dreams of others, and sometimes not even that. Sometimes sleep was death. "No. He's coming home."

"Tara? What do you mean?" There was hope in her voice. There always was, that or fear.

I leaned forward slightly to get a better look outside. The rain was slowing, and the drowsy pitter-patter fading. "Daddy's coming home from the war. Tonight."

She swallowed. "Oh, Tara. I'll make you a glass of warm milk, how about that? And then we can all go to sleep."

"I don't want any of that. I'm going to wait for Daddy." I crossed my legs and continued to watch the window. Her hand went gently on my shoulder, as she breathed in hope and breathed out grief.

Just then, a large car pulled into our driveway, two beams of light coming from it. I sat up straighter. "Daddy's home! Daddy's home!"

I jumped from the sofa and raced to the heavy door, pulling it open. "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!"

Three men came into our house, two of them holding something, which they carefully set on the floor. They were talking to my mother, but I didn't listen. I could hear it later, anyway. I sat down on the floor, next to Daddy, smiling joyfully. I knew it would make my mother happy to see him, since she had always longed for him, every day, every time. Something like pride filled me when I thought of how I had gotten him home, pulled him away from the War. It was I who had gotten him home in whatever way would work. Now maybe, just maybe, my mother would think of me when she slept, dream not of dancing, not of my father, but of me.

But my mother, she cried.