What Might Have Been (High School Stories #3)
09/07/2012
Prompt/Background: The descriptive short story I wrote in my dual credit English class senior year (age 17) that inspired my reimagining of the story, “What Could Have Been,” written in 2023.
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Little clouds of red dust rise around my feet as I make my way down the winding dirt road. Small blades of newly growing grass struggle to thrive in the unfavorable conditions of the parched path and the unpromising summer season. Trees of every shade of green surround me and line the road, blowing fiercely in a sudden gust of wind that tosses my hair in every direction. Small beads of perspiration begin to form on my forehead as I travel under the unforgiving rays of the blazing sun. But I do not have to walk much further; I can see the reason I came here appearing just around the corner.
The dry crunch of grass and weeds grows louder under my feet as more creeping vines wrap around my ankles at the end of the dirt trail. I quicken my pace as my excitement grows. Butterflies are fluttering wildly in my stomach as my heart begins to race. When I round the final bend in the road, I can finally see the house. The facade of the establishment portrays the gradual passing of time. I stand still and take in the overall appearance of what seems like an ancient wood frame house. The once white painted wood is chipped and almost faded completely away, revealing the deteriorating dwelling underneath. It is easy to see the warped features of the wraparound porch that is weathered over so many years of abandonment. And old nineteen forties Chevrolet sits in the front yard looking as if it has been untouched and undriven for years. The tires are old and deflated, and the hubcaps have taken on a russet hue from a lost battle with the elements. Under a thick blanket of dirt, I can see that the automobile was once tan. A picture forms in my mind of how this house – built in the late twenties – looked in the first years it was constructed. I close my eyes and see the brilliant white two story home, the mowed lawn, the brand new vehicle parked under the old oak tree in the front yard. All windows are intact and the screen door is brand new. The porch is straight and recently built, and the wooden porch swing – constructed of a fine cedar – is being hung in what would become the perfect place to catch a sunset on a warm summer evening. When I open my eyes, a pitiful decaying house replaces the beautiful one, and I cautiously walk up the squeaky steps of the porch, hoping they will not give under my weight. The screen door before me loosely swings and creaks as the main door – swollen from the sultry summer heat – seems resistant to my touch. I finally walk inside to see what awaits me.
I am suddenly overcome by a stale musty odor. I can feel the thick dust tickling my nose and I watch as it swirls in the rays of light pouring in from the window. The sparsely furnished parlor catches my eye first with its sofa, table, and floor lamp. I approach the sofa slowly, afraid that the weak wood floor may collapse with too much pressure. I run my hand over the once soft red velvet seat that has grown coarse overtime. I decide to sit down, and I realize for the first time how tired I am. As I look around, I glance at the table to find a black and white photo of a young couple, and I begin to wonder if they are the people who lived here so long ago. It is a wedding photo. The bride, wearing a simple white dress and holding a bouquet decorated with tulle and a few small flowers, is looking admirably up at the groom who is donned in what I recognize as a dress green military uniform from World War II. I smile as I see that he is looking just as adoringly at his new bride; I can almost feel the evident love that they shared. After taking in the details of the photograph, I notice it is covering a piece of crinkled yellow paper. I gently move the picture aside and pick up the letter. The first thing I see is that it is from 1942 and addressed to a woman named Mrs. Josephine Hamilton, from a gentleman named William Stanley Hamilton, and it reads:
My Dearest Jo,
I am writing you this letter to assure you that I am doing well and long for the day of my return so we can finally begin the rest of our lives together. I can hardly wait to drive the final nails into our very own home, and more importantly, to see your face and the faces of our future children as they run and play under the old oak. I will without a doubt return to fulfill the promises I’ve made, and I will count the weeks, days, and hours until my return.
With Undying Love, Will
After minutes of contemplating the contents of the letter and viewing the remainder of the downstairs area, I make my way up creaking stairs that will hopefully lead to more clues of the young couple’s life together. The house is very bare, and I wonder if Will returned home to finish the house and have children like he promised, and if so, where are the family photos? A vanity, a chair, and other antique furniture covered with a blanket of dust from years of unuse and a bed left untouched are in the upstairs bedroom. I do not notice any more photos or letters, so I do not look around long. I continue to the next room, which is bare except for a small wooden cradle carved of fine oak sitting in the corner. The couple must have been expecting a baby, but before or after Will left I did not know. As I turn to leave, I see a piece of paper lying on the floor near the cradle. I walk over and pick it up. This is no ordinary letter. It is not a letter at all. It is a telegram. Before I even read the words on the yellowing paper with tear stains that must be Jo’s, all my questions are answered. Will never came home to finish their beautiful home or start a family. This letter, which looks as if it was dropped and abandoned in the hour of sorrow, explains it all. With tears forming in my eyes, I leave the telegram where I found it and I slowly walk away and descend the steps of the home that would never be completed or filled with the promises made so long ago.
Before I head back down the red dirt road, I stop to look at the old house one last time. It looks much different with the knowledge of the lives Will and Jo lived. As tears pour down my grief stricken face and the taste of salt touches my lips, I understand what love really is and the lack of will to carry on after such a tragedy. Unable to think about it any longer, I return down the winding path that led to so many unbearable memories.
THE END