Last Remaining

• Rachael Westcott, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2013

“It’s coming!” I shouted.
I ran towards the sound of the oncoming train. Dust swirled up all around me as the train master put the motion to a stop. A loud shrill came from the end of the boardwalk and I smiled at the familiar sound. My hair, which was fiery red, blew wildly around my face as the wind picked up. My brother, Gerald, stood next me, his height towering over my small, thin frame. He looked at me and grinned like a little boy on Christmas day. In a way it did feel like Christmas. Having someone you love step off that train and back into your arms, well that’s the best present anyone could receive. We stood there smiling, cheeks hurting and growing excited as if the world was just handed to us.
Three years. Three very long years was the last time we saw our beloved father. He is technically our only last remaining relation left (apart from old aunt Mabel who is nearing the end of her time anyway) so we were very eager to see him again.
First two middle age ladies stepped off from the ‘Lower class’ cabin and a little boy and his weary father, wearing a naval officer uniform, came off second. Suddenly I caught sight of the man that raised me and I waved my arms vigorously till he caught sight of me. He was still the same man I knew, but his bright eyes were darker and he limped slowly towards us, grinning also.
“Papa.” I said as I sighed into his big, strong arms.
“Sweetheart. I missed you dearly.” His voice was gruff and he sounded like he was holding back long overdue tears. I was about to cry myself.
He limped over to Gerald and hugged him as well. I smiled at the sight of the most precious people in the world to me. I really had missed my father’s presence.
“Well Harriet, anyone special in your life?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye. I playfully punched him on the shoulder and told him we better hurry home or supper would be ruined. He just smiled and picked up his carpet bag and started a conversation with my brother. About the war, no less.
Everyone seems to be talking about the war, but I can’t bring myself to read the morning newspaper, let alone listen in to other conversations. I walked a little bit faster, to break away from the men’s conversation. I noticed my father watching me with a concerned look it his eyes, but I just blew him a kiss. He seemed convinced that I was alright.
In fact I wasn't alright. I don’t like the idea of war. Nobody does. I hate to see my father leave and fight in some muddy trench, rotten with dead bodies. I shiver at the thought. No, we will get through this war, even if it means losing the ones we love most.