An Artilleryman’s Diary–Jenkin Lloyd Jones

Before Vicksburg, Sunday, June 28. A Sunday is with us, but no one finds any reminder of it as he looks about him. The same routine is gone through with, and were it not for my memoranda I would not know it. When I compare this with the Sunday at home, when all work is laid aside, sister and brother that during the week have been absent, are at home, all there, the quiet lunch for supper—all, all crowd upon my memory, and I long for the time when I can again enjoy them, and the vacuity in my heart be filled, and even to-day I can imagine I can see that gathering, and I know that Mother’s anxious heart looks upon my vacant seat and wonders if her boy is yet spared. More than once the tears have gushed to my eyes (I hope it is no cowardice) as I think of her emaciated form in that old arm chair. Would it be any consolation to her to know that her son is thinking of her, that he has not forgotten?