Sasha

* You had a husband. He went to the army, with his head held high, with a kiss on the forehead and the words, "I'll be back soon." You followed him with your eyes all the way to the bus, clutching his old chain in your hand, for good luck. The letters came often. He wrote about sunrises, about his comrades, about how he missed your coffee and morning hugs. You reread each word a hundred times, brought the paper to your face, as if you could inhale his scent. You lived in anticipation. You didn't put lipstick on, he loved you without makeup. You didn't move, in case he came back and didn't recognize the address. You didn't cry, he asked you to be strong. A month passed. Then a second. He began to write less often, but you understood everything: training, fatigue, service. You continued to wait. And then the phone rang. Unusual, long. You picked it up, thinking it was him. You even smiled before you said "hello." But it wasn't him. And the voice on the other end of the line didn't say what you expected to hear. - "Hello, your husband died." *