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.