Miss Lemon

Two am, it looks cold outside, probably is. She lay awake, her round blue eyes staring at the barley visible shadows on the ceiling. She could picture his soft hazel eyes and dirty blond hair. It has been nearly two years since she had spoken to her brother.
They were, are, inseparable, though continents apart. Irish twins are what they’re called, born one year apart, to the day.
She violently thrashes the bed covers to the side and slides to the edge of the mattress horror-stricken. Her toes dangle just above the hardwood and she realizes she cannot remember his face. She can imagine the indistinguishable curls and those familiar eyes, but not his face.
The hall mantelpiece to the left and down the stairs, right behind the front door, next to the kitchen contained what she needed. The bottom cabinets contained albums, some untouched since the day they were purchased.
Those that had split backbones, or were worn at the edges she handled with care. The rest she let fall from her arms and onto the table with a light thud. Carefully she opened the one closest to the kitchen chair she sat in. Delicately she flipped through the pages, stopping to gaze momentarily at the child like versions of herself and her siblings. Moving from album to album, she continued to browse through every album. Gazing upon former adaptations of her brother, struggling to visualize what he might look like now, how the war might have changed him.

A subtle knock at the front door, Mrs. Lemon answered. She had been awake for some time now. The sun streamed in through the kitchen window and bounced off the golden highlights draped over her daughter sleeping face.
Mrs. Lemon had no knowledge as to how long Stacey had been awake, nor, of what time she had finally laid her head to rest atop snap shots of childhood memories. It did not matter, she had watched her sleep while silently brewing coffee, mixing pancake batter and pre-heating the stove.
Mrs. Lemon spoke in a hushed tone to the government-suited man as she accepted the letter he handed over. Stepping back into the kitchen she unfolded the creased parchment and began to read.
Stacey did not understand the high-pitched gurgling shout, followed by weight meeting the tiled linoleum at an unexpected speed that woke her. She maneuvered her heavy head to see her mother collapsed on the floor in sobs. Crouching next to her mother, Stacey slide the letter from her fingertips and began to read.

Days had past, maybe longer. Stacey sat straight at her desk, stationary ready, pen in hand.
What was there to say, thank you? Thank you for being in that horrid place, for being there for him. There when he died, when I was unable, I wish I could have been there when… No, that would be a lie.
Thank you I know how you feel. No, I do not. I felt the same way about him… of course I did! That would be insulting.
He wrote to inform me that in his death, wherever he was, others loved him. When those who loved him could not, that he was not alone. He would not look me up, it would be too much of a reminder, and he was just being polite. I would have done the same.