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.

---

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.