Whispers of the Free
A bitter gust of wind blows across the field as I stand at the edge of our homestead, my hand tightly gripping the handle of Benjamin's musket. His eyes are steadfast, the usual mirth replaced by a determination that makes my heart ache. Benjamin, with his soft laughter and warm embraces, is heading off to war.
"Promise me you'll come home, Benjamin," I plead, my voice barely above a whisper.
He takes a step towards me, pulling me into his strong arms. I breathe in his scent, the familiar mixture of pine and earth that's as much a part of him as the freckles dotting his nose. His fingers curl into my hair, pulling my head to rest against his chest.
"I promise, Abigail," he murmurs into my ear, his voice holding a waver that tells me he's just as scared as I am. "I'm fighting for us. For our children, for our freedom."
When he pulls away, he kisses my forehead gently, his lips lingering for a moment longer than usual. Then he reaches for his musket, his fingers tracing the wooden handle. This weapon, this tool of war, is as foreign in his hands as the world we're stepping into.
Our children, Thomas and Sarah, clutch onto my skirts, their wide eyes filled with confusion and fear. Benjamin crouches down to their level, pulling them into a tight embrace. He whispers something in their ears, words meant only for them, and I see the worry ease from their faces just a fraction.
As he mounts his horse, I can't help but memorize the sight of him - the way the morning sun catches in his hair, the resolve in his eyes, the strength in his posture. This is a side of my husband I've never seen, a side forged in the flames of a revolution.
"Remember, Abigail," he calls, his voice strong against the wind, "we are made for freedom."
And with those words ringing in my ears, I watch him ride away, his silhouette disappearing into the horizon.