Father, Daughter Reunite

It's funny, when I think of the term military spouse, my friends smiling faces come to mind; uniforms, broken plates, dirty boots, and endless drab green bags. When I hear that term at any type of ceremony, I have to tilt my head toward the ground, simultaneously straining to look at the ceiling with my eyes only. It helps to keep that first tear shimmering in my eye, instead of bleeding down my cheek, intermingling with mascara.

Doing the job isn't easy. It's hard, lonely, and fraught with arguments and guilt. You cherish each moment, because death is ever present. Emotions are heightened because you cram an entire lifetime's worth of love, memories, and friendship into the few hours or days you have together. But you never really think about it. It's just the way of life that you know. You become inventive with ways to countdown time: the number of meals you have left, the number of workouts, how many vitamins you need to take, the number of times you'll have to replace candles, shampoos, or dog food. You become an expert at converting time, temperature, language.

However, when I listen to someone praise a military wife, I instantly become a blubbering mess. My mind shifts into fast forward, and every single moment that I've ever been alone, or overwhelmed is in my head. I think about crouching by the laundry basket, sucking air in between the gasping sobs, holding on to his shirt. I think about laying on the couch, or in bed, beating the pillow into submission, willing it to turn into a taller, more hardened cuddle buddy. And I think about standing there as he drives away, praying that I become a statue, that my mind stops, that my body forgets, because my heart has been wrenched out brutally. Do I remember how to walk and talk? Because I feel like a zombie, unable to fill the seconds stretching infinitely before me.

SH-notes-heart-escape

This question often brings up a lot of anxiety. Not because I don't know what I love about my home town; it's because I don't know which town I identify as my 'home town.' Is it the place I was born? Or the place that I call home? Maybe it’s the place that I made all my childhood friends? Could it be my home base now? Since I have so many definitions of home, I think I'll write about what I love about making a place ‘home.’

I love creating a space of my own. I'm like a dog with a bone. I get a brand new space, and I'm all smiles, anxious to sniff out all the fun stuff. I drag my bed around and around until I find the perfect spot. I arrange all my things, and bury all the important stuff (journals, trinkets etc).

I love discovery. What makes the town unique? Fun? Exciting? Special? Next, I seek out the essentials -trails to run, a gym, a waxer and a hairdresser. The rest all come in time. I don't need to find a coffee shop because one cup leaves me bouncing off the walls for a month. Bars are money sucking black-holes, and food is ever changing.

Finally, I love my friends. I am a firm believer in the fact that people make the place. My friends always get me through the toughest of times, laugh with me at the best of times and are the protagonists for the most memorable of times.

I suppose what I love most is that I have the perfect recipe to make any town my ‘home town.’

grouch

She stood there, with her arms folded over her chest, scowling.

"Hurry up, or we'll be late. Where are the passports?"

Her father chuckled, handing over all four passports, before turning back to pack his bag. She stalked from the room after carefully placing the passports in her backpack next to her novel and bunny. Then she proceeded to harry the other members of her family, berating them for not being prepared and packing the night before as she had. Sometimes, she offered bits of advice, “Don’t take that sweater, it won’t be cold... If you take that many shoes, we can’t shop for more.”

When they reached the check-in counter, she cleared her throat so the attendant would realise she was a few inches shorter than where she was looking. Briskly she sorted the passports, IDs and gave the lady behind the counter all the pertinent information regarding the travel arrangements. Her signature scowl allowed the attendant to follow her clear instructions, instead of being baffled at the sight of a nine-year-old calmly leading her family on holiday.

The rest of the trek through the airport passed by without concern. She shuffled her parents past the coffee shop, herded them through security, and ushered her brother out of the video game store. They spread out momentarily as she carefully read the synopses of four crime thrillers, before selecting the thickest one to purchase.

As the plane took off, her father looked at her, affectionately pinching her knee, “You truly are an old soul, miss bossy boots.”