4/25/42
Hello, love.

It was just about the best birthday any four year old could ever ask for – minus one crucial ingredient, of course.

You were right – Jimmy and his four little friends loved the army theme, especially the little Spam cakes. I didn’t hear any whining at all about the lack of chocolate frosting. Well, Bridge did ask why she couldn’t have Gimby ice cream, but I did a premo job of distracting the boys right away – I asked who was ready to go secure the perimeter around General Patton’s pigsty. There was a lot of yelling and half-eaten Spam cake on the floor, but spirits were high and, well, you know that’s what counts. I think I’m starting to get the hang of this mothering thing after four years, but half the time I still can’t believe they don’t have a real mom somewhere who will come take them away from me. Either that, or Gimby will finally get fed up with my incompetence and send me packing.

As expected, there were a few moments when Jimmy was on the brink of tears, like when he opened up the official army duffle you sent. He kept a brave face because his friends were there and your dad was watching. As he was getting into his pajamas he did finally break down. At the very least I was thankful Bridget was already asleep and I had no other place to be in the world than in Gimby’s old rocker with my worn-out, heartbroken little boy in my lap. He finally cried himself to sleep, but I didn’t try to stop him.

The day wore on me so much that I fell asleep the moment I hit the mattress. I was sleeping so heavy that I only woke up once wondering why I couldn’t smell the sweet smell of your sweat. And I can’t help worrying about that. Am I forgetting you? That thought kept me from sleeping at all the next night and made me forget the baking powder in the breakfast muffins. You should have seen your dad's face. I worry every day that the day will come when I will want to forget you ever showed your face at that barn dance, that I ever professed my love for haylofts, that you told your mother off about my lousy cooking skills. I know there isn’t much you can do, but – please don’t let that day ever come.

Your dad says he thinks the corn will come up faster than usual this year, even in spite of the flooding. He hasn’t ripped Georgia’s udders all to sheds yet but Gimby still tells him he will every day. Her shaking is getting a little bit worse. The milk almost started spilling out of the pitcher at the party while she was holding it. Virginia is so smitten with that Rogers boy now that Gimby swears up and down that she’ll probably ask him to the Myers’ square dance.

Jimmy is sending you a picture he drew of him and Skip securing the horse barn. Bridge’s scrawl is Gimby spanking Jimmy for tramping around in your dad’s boots all over her clean floor.

I cross myself every time I hear the chime and say a prayer for you.
Barely breathing,
Maisie