A Prayer of Thanks

There are many simple things I'm thankful for. For instance, the thick wooden shutters we have over the bare windows of our one room home. The softness of the hand-made quilt on our bed. The partial deafness my husband has. Do you want to know why I'm thankful for these things? I guess I can tell you. You see, you might not think that these things have any concern in this story, but they are actually very important. For a new couple in a war-laced village, we don't get a lot of good things, quiet being one. But this time is different. I know when I close the door behind me, letting my fingers glide a bit over the rough surface. I hold my breath and lean into the door, smelling the sweet old cedar.
"Are you all right, Ella?"
I open my eyes, seeing my husband, John, sitting in his chair at the table. He'd cleared it after supper, giving me time to wash up at the river. I hadn't made it that far, so my hands are still a bit dirty from preparing the food. I hope he doesn't notice.
"Fine." I smile, coming away from the door and striding to the window, glancing out for a moment before closing the heavy shutters. My hand lingers on the latch before leaving it, the cold clinging to my fingers. I turn back to John , who's giving me a strange look. I smile sweetly.
"I'm just a bit tired."
He smiles back a bit and says he's going to get in bed. I nod and go behind a curtain we keep in the corner of our small room so I can change into my nightgown. Walking past the window, I already hear the chaos building up outside. I crawl into the bed beside John and pull the warm quilt up to my neck. Almost as soon as I lay down, though, John lifts his head.
"Did you hear something just now? Outside?"
I shake my head no. But I do. I hear so many horrible things, screams that ring in my ears. But he can't hear them. I roll onto my back so that I'm looking up at the ceiling, gazing at the delicate swirls my sister helped me paint when John and I had first bought the house. That was two months ago. I wonder if my sister will come and visit John and I after the war blows over.
John lays back down and looks at me. I roll away from him and hope he doesn't notice my trembling shoulders. He shouldn't know. I don't want him too.
His hand rests on my arm, and he feels me shaking. I know this because he rolls me over and pulls me against him. I don't want him to hold me. Then he'll know I'm crying. He'll know I'm scared.
But I let him wrap his arms around me and nestle my head under his chin. My hands grip his shirt as the sounds outside grow louder. Closer. I feel his tears against my hair, feel him trembling a bit as well. I expect him to question me. Ask me why I didn't tell him sooner.
It was already too late.
Why I hid it from him.
I didn't want you to be scared.
We could have escaped.
There was no where to go. Soldiers were everywhere. Those evil soldiers with their screaming rifles and flaming torches.
Such awful flames.
But he doesn't question me. He only holds me against him, not being bothered by my sob-racked body and the tears I leave against his shirt. I love John. I know that when I'm with him, I'm safe. I'm home.
And the two of us held each other when the flames came.