Salt

Weeks after the visit from the solicitous naval representatives—“German submarine. No survivors. Our condolences,” as we struggled to find our footing, Charles entered with the mail. 
“There’s a letter from Junior,” he said, holding it aloft. I watched as he carefully opened the blue onionskin envelope.
Water flowed out from the slit he had made, pouring onto the floor and puddling around our feet.
Charles licked his finger, “It’s salty, like the ocean.”
“Like tears,” I said.
The last message from our son disappeared into vapor in the air around us, warm and damp, then gone, gone again.

Eileen Nittler