Deployment
As spring came, he left. The trees were beginning to bloom, adding a sweetness to the air. The earth was beginning to wake up once again. It was ironic, saying goodbye. Spring normally doesn't feel quite so heavy.
Ways are typically parted at a large public gathering with all of the soldiers and their family. It was different this time. Ben's departure was pushed back (and pushed back again), which landed our goodbyes at the Seattle airport because our flight was leaving a couple days before his. It wasn't what we had planned, but all plans are tentative with the military. In a way, it was easier. Saying goodbye at the departure ceremony last time was miserable. The air felt painfully heavy and every child clung to their mother or father pleading with them to stay.
We said our goodbyes on our own terms this time. There was a bit more privacy, though our fellow travelers couldn't resist staring and offering little smiles when our eyes met. I recall the sinking feeling of driving home without him after our goodbyes last time. I was revisited by this old and unwelcome friend as the airplane pulled away from the gate and taxied toward the runway. It's like that part on Titantic where Jack stays on the ship and Rose is on the descending lifeboat. You want to jump off that airplane and run dramatically through the airport to fall back into his embrace. Except that's a movie and this is real life. As we took off it felt like I was leaving something or someone behind, because I was. For real though, I did leave my favorite jacket at gate B6.
People always ask me how our goodbyes went. I just shrug my shoulders and say they went okay. The truth - telling your husband goodbye for 9 months and potentially for forever is a sliver of hell.
So now the next countdown begins - Ben's homecoming, which seems worlds away. The phase of me carrying my phone around as if my very life depended on it also begins. I was still in college during his last deployment and I recall telling every teacher that my phone would be out on my work station and it would absolutely be answered if Ben called. Once he called during the middle of a critique (in art school this is where you present your work and stand helplessly as it is tore to pieces). I walked out right in the middle of my critique without any explanation. I grew far less uptight about it toward the end of the deployment. I finally accepted that sometimes calls would be missed.
During the last deployment I stayed where Ben was stationed, which was in Texas. I was a full-time student, worked part-time, interned part-time, and drank wine part-time (should I admit this?) with some wonderfully supportive and positive people. For this deployment Ben and I decided together that I would return to Tennessee. I don't owe an explanation, but I'll say that I need the direct support of our families right now. For both of us, this temporary move for Violet and I makes sense.
Last night I took our dogs out before bedtime and as they ran about sniffing north, south, east, and west I realized how quiet it is here. I had forgotten. There's an honest quality about it. It's a silence that, unlike the cities I've become so accustomed to, forces you to face yourself. There's nothing like the pain of separation to make you feel alive. There's a distinct difference in being alive and feeling alive. Feeling alive is allowing tears to run down your face. The sweet and salty taste feeds my soul in a way I can't quite explain.
Ways are typically parted at a large public gathering with all of the soldiers and their family. It was different this time. Ben's departure was pushed back (and pushed back again), which landed our goodbyes at the Seattle airport because our flight was leaving a couple days before his. It wasn't what we had planned, but all plans are tentative with the military. In a way, it was easier. Saying goodbye at the departure ceremony last time was miserable. The air felt painfully heavy and every child clung to their mother or father pleading with them to stay.
We said our goodbyes on our own terms this time. There was a bit more privacy, though our fellow travelers couldn't resist staring and offering little smiles when our eyes met. I recall the sinking feeling of driving home without him after our goodbyes last time. I was revisited by this old and unwelcome friend as the airplane pulled away from the gate and taxied toward the runway. It's like that part on Titantic where Jack stays on the ship and Rose is on the descending lifeboat. You want to jump off that airplane and run dramatically through the airport to fall back into his embrace. Except that's a movie and this is real life. As we took off it felt like I was leaving something or someone behind, because I was. For real though, I did leave my favorite jacket at gate B6.
People always ask me how our goodbyes went. I just shrug my shoulders and say they went okay. The truth - telling your husband goodbye for 9 months and potentially for forever is a sliver of hell.
So now the next countdown begins - Ben's homecoming, which seems worlds away. The phase of me carrying my phone around as if my very life depended on it also begins. I was still in college during his last deployment and I recall telling every teacher that my phone would be out on my work station and it would absolutely be answered if Ben called. Once he called during the middle of a critique (in art school this is where you present your work and stand helplessly as it is tore to pieces). I walked out right in the middle of my critique without any explanation. I grew far less uptight about it toward the end of the deployment. I finally accepted that sometimes calls would be missed.
During the last deployment I stayed where Ben was stationed, which was in Texas. I was a full-time student, worked part-time, interned part-time, and drank wine part-time (should I admit this?) with some wonderfully supportive and positive people. For this deployment Ben and I decided together that I would return to Tennessee. I don't owe an explanation, but I'll say that I need the direct support of our families right now. For both of us, this temporary move for Violet and I makes sense.
Last night I took our dogs out before bedtime and as they ran about sniffing north, south, east, and west I realized how quiet it is here. I had forgotten. There's an honest quality about it. It's a silence that, unlike the cities I've become so accustomed to, forces you to face yourself. There's nothing like the pain of separation to make you feel alive. There's a distinct difference in being alive and feeling alive. Feeling alive is allowing tears to run down your face. The sweet and salty taste feeds my soul in a way I can't quite explain.
May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.
Comments
Post a Comment