9/11: Pulling Back the Curtain

My screen is a junkyard of broken phrases. I’ve strung and unstrung sentences, unable to find the proper language to fully encompass the significance of the date. Perhaps moments of silence are practiced for a reason. Sometimes there are no words.

Chris and I had our longest conversation to date because the call was free. Though I was elated to hear his voice, I was aware of the invisible price tag on that phone call. We must never forget our nation’s adversities. Some of us choose to become heroes. That’s part of the reason why Chris joined the military. For the rest of us, our responsibility lies in pulling back the curtain we've drawn. Let us remember and respect those that were lost, those that made sacrifices that day and days past, and those that are dedicating themselves now, to the rest of us and our families.

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Photo by Julien Menichini

Two Klicks: Too Close

Photo by Paul Garland

The numbers were wrong. My emails were telling me one thing and the research was telling me something else. Why was it so hard to reconcile mismatched pieces of data? It didn’t seem right. Numbers stacked in a column on a day just like any other and I was splintered into pieces over them. Deep down, I knew why . . .

I was at work. Like most days, I was lost in one of my spreadsheets, deaf to the office soundtrack. If Chris had parachuted onto the balcony behind me and tapped on the glass window, I probably would’ve missed it. Good thing he tapped from another window today.

It was the first time he’d ever done it. The user was alien to my buddy list, but I accepted the invitation because I knew the nickname. Chris found me at my desk from a computer in the desert, over sand, over ocean, through wires, and through waves. My heart breathed out a silent “thank you” for technology.

Within our brief IM session, he mentioned his platoon’s separation from the rest of the company, a mission in that sandbox that would keep him out for roughly a month. He also described his squad-sized quarters, apparently more comfortable, but still lacking privacy. As my excited ramblings over a newfound means of communication poured across the window, Chris wondered at my sense of calm. I was confused. What had I missed?

“There was an IED that hit a couple klicks away from us. It was on CNN.”

I was left with that thought when our conversation came to a close. It’s an ugly thing to hear, but I never asked to stand in the shelter while he runs through the storm. If he’s going through it, I’m there holding his hand because he needs to tell someone—they all do.

Today, the numbers were wrong and I struggled to make them right. Chris’ words echoed in my head, but I needed to make the pieces fit. I threw myself into the arms of my work because making sense out of numbers was all I could do to keep myself from just one more thing I have absolutely no control over.

Pictures of You, Faces like Yours

After last weekend, Chris’ house no longer feels strange. It isn’t this place anymore that reminds me of our last moments together. The walls, the pictures, the furniture, the air, everything felt odd because they were all remnants of memories I’d made with him. This was a place I’d never been to without him by my side. Now it has become my sanctuary, the one area where it’s okay to talk about Chris as much as I want.

When he left, I’d confined myself to my room, leaving only for work and the occasional stop at the bookstore. I was ignoring phone calls and invitations because it didn’t seem right to go out and enjoy myself, knowing where he is. Visiting Chris’ house opened a door, allowing a first step out into the world again. I am breathing fresh air. I am communicating again. I have finally left the bell tower.

Even though it’s no longer strange, I wonder whether it will ever feel “normal.” It is very possible that Chris’ family—both immediate and extended—will come to know me very well by the time he returns. Will this put him at ease, or will it serve as a painful reminder of what he missed while he was gone? At the same time, if I continue my visits, will it hurt him to know that I’ve spent more days in his house with his family than I did with him within those walls? Perhaps I should limit my time spent there, but I can’t help it. If he ever asks me why, my answer for him is simple: I want to surround myself with pictures of you and faces like yours.

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Photo taken and altered by me (original family photography from Chris' house).

The Midway Paradox

“You’re coming home?”

I could barely hear him when I needed to understand his words the most. Was he really coming home? Was this nightmare coming to an end? How was this happening? I walked into the house for better reception that I’d never find. In this technology-ridden age, I wouldn't have believed bad connections still exist on landlines. As I circled between two rooms, Chris answered my questions.


Before leaving, he explained that I would see him before his year was up. Deployed soldiers are usually given two weeks of leave time around the halfway point of their tour. I was expecting Chris home around February or March of next year for his “mid-tour leave.” In Iraq, Chris had learned otherwise. Because of his ranking, he would be sent home earlier than the soldiers above him¹. I wasn’t sure whether to be happy or sad that he’s coming home in November instead. Rather than waiting for two sixth-month periods, I would wait for three months and agonize over nine more once he returned to Iraq.


The rest of our conversation was spent describing our days. I recounted my ever-growing sleep debt and the inability to find enough things to keep myself distracted, while he reported on 16-hour patrols, raw sewage for bathing water, and his own sleep deprivation. He’d said so much more than I could hear, but of the broken pieces sent over a telephone line from across the world, there was one detail I certainly didn’t miss. Chris had an opportunity to read my blog. Without having to ask, he answered a curiosity I’d written about earlier. Before going to bed, Chris hears gunshots.

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¹ Chris’ leave time has been scheduled within the early portion of a window of opportunity to send troops home. The timing has more to do with experience rather than ranking. Soldiers that are on their first deployment are generally sent home earlier because it is believed that seasoned troops have the endurance to stay out longer. However, scheduling can change in the event of a significant life event (i.e. the birth of a child). (Source: military contacts)

Out of Service, In Good Fortune

Photo by Balakov

I knew he was going to call today. I knew it as I left my house, clutching my phone in my hand. I knew it as I got on the highway and headed north, radio turned down low. I knew it because I was on my way to a place where cell phone service gets lost and can’t find its way. As luck would have it, Chris didn’t call me on my phone; he called somewhere else.

The phone rang and I’d just arrived. Distracted by the hugs and hellos, so many relatives in for the holiday weekend, I only heard a “guess who’s here” spoken into the receiver in the background. I couldn’t imagine that she was speaking about me. I ignored the comment and continued my round of greetings. When the phone transferred hands, I heard another snippet: “you’re coming home?” Definitely not Chris on the other end, he just left. As it turned out, I was wrong, and it felt good.

Chris didn’t know I’d be at his parent’s house just as I didn’t know he’d call the very moment I got there. I was happy. After what happened last time, I knew that it was possible to miss important calls no matter how close you keep your phone. However, when fate waves her magic wand, extraordinary things happen. I was out of service, but in good fortune.

It was my turn up. Chris’ dad handed me the phone and said, “He’s coming home.”

To be continued . . .

Stepping Closer to Away

Photo by slambo_42

Last weekend I spent time with Chris’ family. I remember pulling into their driveway, the aftershock of my last visit resonating from the gravel beneath my car. The last time I was on that patch of road, I’d just returned from the airport with his mother and sister. We’d sent Chris on his way to Fort Bragg, but it was our last time with him before Iraq. I remember the peculiar weather that evening. His flight was postponed more than a handful of times, as if the rain was fully aware of how much we all wanted him to stay with us. It was both a blessing and a curse.

The original plan was to drop Chris off. When we arrived earlier than scheduled, we decided to wait with him inside. I remember feeling awkward. Standing, sitting, walking, checking in—the routine airport song and dance—were not their usual distraction. The gravity of the moment hung thick in the air, tears flowing freely. Our embraces were both hurried and urgent—a scene that caused the security guard to explain that members of the military are permitted unlimited gate passes. Our smiles returned as we walked with Chris to the concourse.

Chris’ flight was delayed about six times. The hours were spent playing musical chairs: mother, sister, girlfriend, which two get to sit next to him? I felt the least important, a new addition to Chris’ life rather than a fixture. Out of courtesy, I wanted to move, but Chris insisted I stay by his side. After so much waiting, I found myself in a state of denial. He wasn’t actually leaving, he couldn’t be. If he were, he would’ve left already. Reality came knocking when the actual moment arrived. We each gave our love and watched him walk toward the plane, stepping closer to deployment, stepping further away from us. There we stood, mother watching son, sister watching brother, girlfriend watching boyfriend, all three watching together.

Fairy Tales Ending

It happened last night, so out of place and unexpected. I sat there, words stolen from me at the sight of him. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. Just an arm’s length in front of me, no longer on the other side of the world, Chris had returned.

It wasn’t the homecoming I’d pictured. We sat together quietly for a moment. I looked around the room that was too dim and too empty—curtains drawn, a flimsy 40-watt lamp somewhere in the corner, and a pile of crumpled sheets strewn across the floor. Chris looked at me, the scruff on his face as rough as his words.

He was home early, deployment cut short. He’d come to see me today to tell me that he couldn’t continue this relationship. Apparently, while he was gone, Chris had forgotten why I was "special enough to keep in the first place." His eyes were dark, his face motionless. The look he gave me was scarring.

He wasn’t sorry. He wasn’t anything I remembered. He wasn’t the person I’d waited for.

It has begun. The first nightmare has arrived, my fairy tale dreams chased out from under my sleeping lids. The one place I find peace has now become a corrupted stage, an open arena for the terrors only my wakeful mind has suffered. I must remind myself that it wasn't real, that rapid eye movement can oftentimes be deceiving. And yet, I cannot keep myself from worrying: which of my fears will play out next in my unconscious mind?

I am afraid. Awake or asleep now, I have nowhere to run.

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Photo by Gabriela Camerotti

Author's Note: Dreams and wakefulness can also represent desires and a state of enlightenment, respectively. However, my usage of both terms is meant in the most literal and physical sense. With no initial warning of the events taking place in a dream, I hoped to convey the shock and sadness that was very real to me in my sleeping state. Chris is still deployed and we are still very much together.

Lobster Means "I Love You"

Photo by wader
I told my mother I wasn’t hungry—simple words and yet, they hold such magnitude coming from someone like me. I hardly ever have a problem with my appetite. Just as onlookers have watched great masters at their craft on television—from ballroom dancers to basketball players—friends and family have watched me eat. I’ve devoured whole pizzas, polished off ice cream by the carton, and cleaned plates of pasta made for two. For most of my life, I have been a master at voracity.

When my mom realized I wasn't eating she knew that something was seriously wrong. Immediately, she tried to address the problem. She offered favorite foods and attempted to color my imagination with all things dreamed from the grocery store. When I didn’t respond, she took her knowledge of her daughter and went to market with it.

I came home to the result of her efforts: an overstocked fridge with items loved by me, and a large pot on the stove, brimming with lobster. Apparently, even in these hard economic times, nothing can stop a mother’s determination to fix a troubled, withering daughter. Her mission was accomplished, the smells of the kitchen drawing me back to the piece of myself I’d lost when Chris left.

I told my mother I wasn’t hungry. In return, she told me that she loves me.

Chances Are Good

Photo by jam343

Somewhere between panic-stricken and sleep-deprived, compromise was found. A shallow sleep arrived when I clung to the idea that there would be other chances; that sooner or later, he would call again. Turns out, sooner or later happened in less than two hours.

When I picked up his call, my mind was still fuzzy from almost dreaming. On his end, his voice was unsure, as if he'd anticipated another conversation with my voicemail. It took us a moment, but together, we found our beat.

In 26 minutes and 17 seconds, he told me that he’d been separated from his company because he was selected with two others to take MRAP classes. Leaving his platoon ultimately gave him more opportune moments to call. Although I’d hoped my intuition was wrong, he also confirmed that weekends do not exist for soldiers—their efforts are ongoing. He continued, describing the lack of privacy, how he wouldn’t have a room of his own as he’d thought, that he’d most likely occupy a tent with nine others. On my side of the world I was lost in his words, listening to his sounds, remembering, memorizing, smiling, missing, relishing . . .

Chris was rushed off the phone. His 30-minute allowance was cut short because of the volume of soldiers waiting to place calls. Our goodbyes were hurried, but I am thankful. There would be no goodbye without a hello. I was given a fifth chance this morning and those don’t happen everyday.

Mute Mistake

There are some moments in life that you feel you just can’t describe. This is one of them:

“You have four new messages. First new message, sent today at 4:32 a.m.”

“Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up . . .”

“Next message sent today at 4:34 a.m.”

“Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up . . .”

“Next message sent today at 4:36 a.m.”

“Seriously wake up . . . I don’t know when I’ll be able to call you again . . . I miss you, I miss you . . .”

“Next message sent today at 4:39 a.m."

“I guess you’re not going to pick up. I don’t know when I’m going to be able to call you again . . .”

My phone was on silent from a visit to the bookstore with my sister last night. I’d forgotten to turn the ringer back on. We were in my room talking and laughing until 5:45 a.m. I was exhausted when I checked my messages a few moments ago. I'm wide awake now because I can’t forgive myself.

I'd Paint the Desert for You

Silent and still, not a single movement the moment I see it. After scanning through the junk maybe a dozen times a day, here it is. Finally. My eyes begin to move while I hold my breath.

“Still Alive”

So thankful. We’ve got a lot more to go.

“Moved me around the bases a couple times”

You’ve only been gone for five days, is that normal?

“I'm in the process of learning how to drive an MRAP vehicle”

What’s that? I need to learn military jargon.

“A very safe very well protected 70,000lb truck”

That makes me feel a little better. You’re precious cargo to me.

“Not much to see here . . . just miles of sand . . . I miss greens, blues, and any other color”

I’d paint the desert for you if I could.

“Not sure when I’ll be able to make a phone call”

I miss your voice.

He says phone contact and e-mails will be limited because he’s currently living out of an 80-person tent. I cringe at the idea. I can’t imagine what he’s experiencing.

Chris closes by telling me that he misses me, that a year of separation will be horrible. For the first time since I opened his e-mail, I take a breath. I readjust my position in my kitchen chair. I start his message from the beginning. I do this six more times, because I miss him too.

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Photo by Jayel Aheram
Note: Jayel is currently serving in the United States Marine Corps. He has an entire album dedicated to his deployment to Iraq showing that, even in the ugliest places and times, beauty can be found.

Sometimes Tardiness is Well-Timed

Photo by jgarber

A large dilapidated box arrived, blocking the entrance to my house. We’d been receiving packages over the last week and this was just one more to add to the pile. A small piece of me hoped, but after several days of searching the mailbox and the space by the garage where deliveries like to hide, I knew it was safer not to. How stupid of me.

Dinged up from its travels, slumping victoriously, there it was: better late than never. Chris’ birthday present to me was finally here, my face aglow with the biggest smile I’d had in days.

Before Chris left, he’d given me the arrival date of my gift. Had it come on time, one week before today, Chris would've been home when I received it. Until now, I have never been grateful for a late delivery. Though he is not permitted to contact anyone just yet, he is communicating now, no words necessary.

Bedtime Sounds

Photo by Pictr 30D

I look to my watch for the date: credit card paid on time two days ago. Why does it feel as if I’d made that payment last week? I realize my internal clock is off, proof that the wait is indeed a cruel adversary. It seems that two days now translates into more than a mere 48 hours.

I find this experience so uniquely torturous and perplexing. To be “with” Chris is painful, but to be without him is unimaginable. I have a newfound respect for the individuals that have been doing this all the days and years I’ve had my head in the sand.

Sitting on my stoop, I listen to bedtime sounds: a symphony of crickets and cicadas playing into the evening sky. I wonder what Chris hears each time he lays down to rest. Are the foreign insects as loud? Is there incessant chatter from sleepless soldiers? Or does an unquiet mind keep him awake? These questions will remain unanswered until we speak again. How I hope he finds time enough to reach out when he's finished wandering the desert in places kept secret. If he does, I’m sure these questions will be much too wasteful to ask.

The Beginning

Photo by Sam Hood

I didn't know what to do. I found myself standing in my room in my pajamas feeling absolutely uncomfortable. Do I sit? Do I stand? Do I get under the covers? My mind started wandering. I thought about the unopened calendar I'd discovered last night while I counted down the minutes before he left, rummaging through my belongings, looking for nothing, heart beating and absolutely terrified. I'd meant to find a place for it on my wall and somehow more than half the year is gone—what a shame.

They say that "time flies" and my calendar is certainly a fine example. It marks the swift passage of days even in its sealed plastic packaging. So why do I feel that waiting for Chris to return next year, will be as painfully slow as waiting for your next birthday when you're just a kid? I grow tired thinking about it: the lonely nights, the terrifying dreams, the stress and anguish of having no control, and the anger I can't help but feel towards the ugliness in this world that is the cause of his trip.

I later found peace enough to take a nap, thinking about his last phone call to me. He was in Maine, waiting for the plane to refuel and delivering some words of comfort in his absence. He offered me "all the kisses in the world" before continuing on his journey east. His voice was soft, sincere, a heartwarming reminder of why I'm here waiting. Though the year ahead promises a hellish experience, I chose my role and so did Chris. He is a soldier bound for Iraq . . . and I am his girlfriend.