illphated

Bean Missing You
The poster was everywhere, from the post office in dusty Abilene to the bustling train stations in Chicago. A beautiful cowgirl, her blonde hair catching the imagined prairie sun, green eyes sparkling with a resolve that could tame the wildest mustang. Her smile was a beacon of hope, a promise of the home front’s strength. And the text, bold and heartfelt: “Bean Missing You.”
They had made a celebrity out of Elara, but they didn’t know the half of it. They didn’t know “Bean” wasn’t some folksy term of endearment for the troops. He was her Bean. Private Benjamin “Bean” Carter, the lanky boy from the neighboring ranch who could fix any engine and whose laugh was the only music she ever needed.
He’d given her the nickname first. “You’re like a little jumping bean, Ellie,” he’d said, watching her dart around the corral, her energy boundless. It stuck. And he, with his quiet strength and solid presence, became her Bean.
When the war came, he was one of the first to go. On the platform of the train station, smelling of coal smoke and choked-back tears, he’d held her tight. “You be the heart of this place for me, Ellie,” he whispered into her hair. “Keep it beating ’til I get back.”
And she did. She ran the ranch with her father, her hands growing calloused, her face weathered by the sun, but her spirit never broke. When the War Information Office came looking for a face for their new campaign, the local photographer suggested Elara. They loved her instantly. The wholesome, all-American cowgirl.
They asked her what message she’d want to send the boys overseas. She didn’t hesitate. “Just tell them we’re missing them.” The artist, a slick man from the city, wanted something catchier.
“How about a nickname? Something personal?” he’d prodded.
A sad smile touched Elara’s lips. “Just… ‘Bean Missing You’.”
The artist loved it. “Perfect! It’s folksy! Relatable!”
So they printed thousands. Elara became the girl on the poster, a symbol of steadfast love and longing for a nation at war. Every letter she sent to the Pacific theater was sealed with the same three words. Her nights were spent writing to him, pouring out the daily struggles and triumphs of the ranch, her unwavering love a constant refrain.
The last letter she received from him was smudged and worn, the paper softened by humidity and the long journey home. He wrote of turquoise waters and skies filled with strange, terrifying birds of steel. He wrote about how he kept a folded, creased copy of her poster in his breast pocket. It’s the last thing I look at every night, Ellie. Seeing your smile… it’s like seeing home. I’m missing you something fierce. Your Bean.
A week later, the black car rolled up the long, dusty drive to the ranch. Two men in uniform stepped out, their faces grim, holding a telegram that felt heavier than the world.
The posters stayed up for months after. A beautiful cowgirl with stunning green eyes, smiling out at a world that felt empty. The bold letters, once a promise of reunion, were now a permanent, aching epitaph. A testament to an ill-fated love, and a girl who would forever be missing her Bean.