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.