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            I was standing in the kitchen, finishing the dough, when the knock sounded, thump, thump, thump. It was three o’clock. I would always remember that. I wandered out into the front room of our little cottage. It was clean, the product of too much worrying, but that was good if this was unexpected company. I hoped it was nothing more that my mother or one of my brothers. The person knocked again, impatient, thump, thump, thump. I wiped the flour off of my hands and onto my beige colored apron before opening the door. I looked up into the grey eyes of a man I had never seen before. His eyes were pained, upset. He was wearing the colors of the army and he was holding a messenger bag.

            “Are you Lucy Percival?” He asked in a gruff voice.

            “Yes. Can I help you, Officer?” I whispered, crossing my arms over my swollen stomach protectively, my breathing short and choppy.

            He reached into his bag and handed me a letter. Then he saluted, turned on his heel and walked away. My breath started coming faster and faster, getting closer to hyperventilation with each second that passed as I broke the seal on the letter. I could barely read my hands were shaking so much.

            Dear Mrs. Lucy Percival,

                        We regret to inform you that on May 12, 1918, in Camp Sherman, your husband, Private Jonathon M. Percival, died of the Influenza. Enclosed is his last letter, and personal items that were recovered. We hope this letter finds you in good health and we are very sorry for your loss.

Sincerely,

The Army of the United States of America

            I slowly turned the envelope upside down. A blue ribbon, a dog tag, and a torn half-sheet of paper tumbled out into my outstretched palm. I stroked the ribbon as my tears overflowed. It was mine. I had given it to Jon for luck on the day that he had left for camp. I tied it around my long dark locks, pinning them up. I turned the dog tag over so that I could read the writing.

PRIVATE JONATHON MICHAEL PERCIVAL

            That was how they had known, by reading this accursed dog tag. I remembered the day Jon had gotten it. Just two days before he had left. He had been so excited, his own dog tag, his own special part of his uniform. I cried harder, remembering him, as I slipped the necklace over my head. I would wear it forever. Just like the ribbon.

And then I couldn’t contain myself any longer. I slipped down the wall and started sobbing violently into my hands. He was gone. My Jon was gone. Dead. Killed by the same mysterious virus that had already claimed my father and youngest sister. Now it had claimed the life of my husband as well.

My hands fluttered to my stomach instinctively. Jon hadn’t known about the baby when he left. I had sent him a letter three days ago to tell him. He would have never gotten that letter. I sent it the day he died. My crying became even more violent as I realized that Jon had died not knowing that he was going to have a child. Not knowing that the wife he had left behind in Louisiana was carrying his baby. I was only two months along if I had guessed right. My bump was barely noticeable. It was then that I remembered his last letter. I opened it carefully, not wanting to destroy the last part of my love.

My Dearest Lucy,

          The doctors say that I am going to die. I have been sick for a day and a half now, and they are expecting me to fall into a coma very shortly. That is the last stage before death. I have been praying to God that He will spare you from this deadly illness. I care not that I will die, though I know that sounds absurd; I only care that I will not get to see you again. I shall never be able to see your sparkling sky-colored eyes as you talk to me, or watch your chocolate hair blowing in the wind while you pick flowers and feed the chickens. Lucy, you truly are the love of my life, and I feel that I can die happy, knowing that you love me too and we were together for however short a time. My greatest hope is that you survive and find a way to be happy. You do not deserve to burry yourself behind black veils of sorrow forever. The world needs to know you, Lucy. Please do not hide yourself on my account. As I lay here, writing this, I feel the unconsciousness coming. Remember I love you, Lucy. Remember you are special. Never let yourself disappear. I love you to the stars and back…

            It ended right there, as though Jon had not had the strength to continue. I cried harder, realizing for the very first time that he was not coming back. He would never stroll through the doorway and sweep me into his arms again, would never whisper stories to me until I fell asleep, would never kiss my tears away when I became upset over something trivial. He would never come home again.

My mother found me two hours later, still weeping at the open door. It was only then that I remembered I was supposed to visit her today.

            “Lucy, love, what is wrong?” She felt my forehead, trying to find the cause of my sorrow.

            “It’s Jon.” I managed to croak. “He…he…he…” I couldn’t continue as the tears became violent again. Instead I handed her the army’s letter. I watched her lips move as she read. The tears overflowed in her eyes as she sat down beside me.

            “It is going to be okay, Lucy. We will get through this together.”

            And so we sat and cried, mourning our dead husbands.