1776

It was the Fall of 1776, I had just turned sixteen years old and I was excited to finally be considered a full-fledged woman. Two hundred and forty-five years ago the justification of adulthood was much more diverse. Many of the women my age were already married and starting families. I was a late-bloomer, I suppose that my Papa wanted to hold on to me for a long as he possibly could. Everybody knew that as soon as this day arrived I would marry Oliver Smith. He was such a handsome young man, with his bright blue eyes and charming smile he could captivate everyone except for my Papa.

The American Revolution was in full swing and just like many of the other young men, Oliver fancied the call for all able-bodied men to join the newly formed Continental Army. There was something alluring and captivating about becoming a favored war hero. My Papa had served in the French-Indian War and wanted absolutely nothing to do with a conflict with the most powerful nation in the world, Great Britain. He had said that Oliver was arrogant and foolish but in reality, I believe that his disfavor was in knowing that I would likely suffer from the casualties of war.

It was a peaceful Sunday morning, Mama and I were sitting beneath the old pear tree preparing the ripe fruits for dinner. She was carefully grooming and prepping the pears for her famous raspberry-sauced fresh pear dumplings. It was mine and Papa's absolute favorite dish and she made sure that we had it when the fruits were in season.

Papa was tending to the horses out in the barn. Mama and I giggled amongst ourselves as we heard him bellyache and yammer about the mess that his most cherished steeds had made. I kept a watchful eye on the long, dirt road that led to our small plantation. I expected to see my beloved Oliver come galloping through the autumn leaves at any moment.

Suddenly the tranquil calmness was broken as gunfire erupted in the distance. "Get inside!" Papa ordered as he grabbed his rifle from the barn. We timidly watched from the windows as the battle ensued just beyond our property. The angry thunder from the cannon blasts sent waves of fear through my body. I could feel the floorboards beneath my feet tremble with each ground shaking concussion.

Suddenly I spotted Oliver rushing from the smokey field. He had unintentionally been caught in the crossfire. I quickly rushed outside to comfort him as my father followed close behind warning me to get back inside. I screamed in horridness as I beheld the wound. His body jerked suddenly and he stared down at where the bullet had carved a hole into his side. He staggered toward me; blood dripped through his fingers as he covered the wound with his hand. A wave of shock went over his face, and his eyes filled with fear and desperation. The smaller wounds in his flesh leaked blood much like the way crying eyes leak tears.

I was filled with complete and absolute repulsiveness as I looked down at Mama's fresh pears now covered in blood. Oliver and I were to be married in seven days, instead, he died right there in my arms on that Sunday morning as the war raged on in the distance.

That night a cavalry of British Dragoons penetrated our home and took everything of value. My father was killed instantly although my mother's fate was agonizingly and bitterly prolonged. I hid beneath the floorboards as I watched our home become engulfed with raging flames. I knew that there was no escape, I was trapped beneath the house that had once sheltered and comforted me. I shook and shuddered as I heard the ranting and raving voices descend into the night.

My eyelids fluttered as the heavy, thick smoke overwhelmed me. I reflected on my life, knowing that it would all be gone soon. I felt my eyes close slowly and I gave myself away to the darkness. I could sense my soul drifting away from my body and taking me to a peaceful place where Mama, Papa, and Oliver awaited my arrival.

I often come back and revisit the plantation, the place where I felt the most happiness and bliss. Sometimes I sit beneath the pear tree which still stands and I watch my Mama peeling those fresh pears with a beautiful smile on her face. We look at each other and smile as Papa tends to his horses with gladness and joy. Oliver has yet to come back to me, I wonder where his soul might be dwelling and what holds up his arrival.

Those precious memories linger within my consciousness and although both of my parents have since moved on to the hereafter, I will remain here until Oliver returns for me. My soul frigidly dwells in the carnage and ashes of what once was. There is always blood on the pears, a reality that I cannot escape even in death. Upon occasion, I meet an aimless, stray visitor dropping by out of nosiness and curiosity but they fail to perceive my wretched existence.

I wait. I wonder. I watch. I expect to see my beloved Oliver come galloping through the autumn leaves at any moment.