A Letter To The Missing

By Maureen Magee

Dear John, Allan and Bob:

You are in my thoughts.  That’s usually a comment of sympathy, isn’t it?   Especially in bereavement situations. But I am not bereaved and neither are the three of you.  Still—you are somehow in my thoughts. You are in my head and on my mind and quite frankly, the three of you are driving me crazy.

And I do not know why.

I grew up as an only child and the word ‘family’ had no great, extended meaning for me.  My family consisted of three people.  My mother had no relatives and my Dad (who was your baby brother, Dave) had little interest in the family he’d left behind. When I was a child, asking him about his far-away family, he gave me no more than a couple of sentences about you three.  And so, I grew up without interest as well.  

But now, after seven decades of life, I have been seized with a gripping kind of curiosity about my Dad’s family.  Not about my cousins or some of their descendants who may still be alive; not about relatives who may have achieved some worldly success or may just have lots of good stories to tell over a cup of tea, but a more specific curiosity.  About the three of you—John, Allan and Bob, the three young men of whom I know next to nothing and who have been dead (or as good as dead) for more than a hundred years.  

You three are barely shadows to me and I know that it was not I who reached out to you.  You three - you have invaded my mind like a brain worm.  And, because I am a writer, I am doing what I know best—writing down my thoughts to try and understand this situation.  

Back in 1915 when you all enlisted in the military, your little brother Dave was three years old. He didn’t know you at all.  And you two, John and Allan, you never came back.

But Bob, you did. You, the youngest one, who had run away to another province to enlist at the age of fifteen, you returned.  But you weren’t quite right, were you, Bob?  Something was wrong with your mind and they put you in a mental institution, locked away and essentially dead to the world for another forty years.  My Dad was seven years old when that happened.  No wonder he had so little to tell me.  

You three would have been my uncles.  And technically, Bob—you were still living in the mental institution when I was born—you were my uncle for the first thirteen years of my life.  Had I known.

I know so little of you men; I have no photos or letters and no personal reminiscences from others, but I do have access to the Canadian government records when you enlisted, and so I know your heights (you were all a bit short…did you know that little Dave grew to six feet one-inch?)  I know your weight, hair and eye color.  I know what day you left Canada, when you got transferred from one regiment to another and when you received medical treatment for some reason. (You were enjoying the ladies over there, weren’t you?)  I know when you misbehaved or went AWOL and got punished.   I know about the twenty dollars pay that got sent home to your mother each month.  I know, John and Allan, when you died and where you are buried in France. 

But I still don’t understand why you are hovering here, in my mind, nudging at me.   I think of you each November 11th, and I shed tears for what you went through and for the future you lost.  I have talked aloud to you…promising to remember you all.  I wonder if you ever heard.  But I have very little to remember.  So, tell me please.  What is it that you fellows want?

I have a suspicion (correct me if I am wrong) that you want more than a visit to your graves.  Perhaps you know that I am a writer?  Is that it?  Would you like me to write about you?  

If so, that is entirely possible, although I have to point out that I am a non-fiction writer.  I am quite good at rendering truthful tales.  But if this is what you want Uncles, then you are going to have to agree that whatever I write will be fiction.  Because of course, I don’t know the truth.  And if you are understanding about that—all three of you—just let me know and I will give it a try. 

There’s no rush, think it over.  I know you will get your answer through to me somehow.

With love,

Your niece, Maureen

Maureen Magee is an author based in Victoria, British Columbia. Discover more at www.maureenmagee.com.