What is deployment?

I still don’t know what it is for the brave and heroic ones fighting, willing to sacrifice all.

I’m not a Marine nor a Soldier. Not a Sailor nor an Airman.

I’m just a wife who loves a Marine. A mother of children who call a Marine “Daddy.”

I do know – very well – what it is for us.

 

Deployment means a year of lonely nights and endless days and little boys who wake crying, “I’m so sad ’bout Daddy…”

It’s a phone call and an instant message and wishing for just one conversation without anyone listening.

It’s quick meals and long sighs and sitting on the couch just to stare at the wall.

It’s being strong, getting stronger and coming apart at the seams all at the same time. Being both proud and terrified in one single second.

It’s realizing that independence is necessary but needing someone can be better.

It’s watching the moon for much too long and knowing that by the time he sees it I’ll be standing in the warmth of sunlight.

It’s a few months, a year, more than a year, all marching away and people growing and changing and wondering who we’ll all have become when our time paths meet in the distance.

But then

deployment becomes a countdown.

Months to weeks to days to hours to oh glory minutes.

It’s finding a dress he’ll like and jewelry to match and keeping track of a pair of giddy little boys and fences covered in signs painted Welcome Home!

It’s the last mad dash to look just right and hurry and wait and hurry again and butterflies and oh my word remember to breathe.

It’s an electric hoard of expectant faces, phones held close and time checked often. Little people running in a tornado and tired mothers knowing it’s all almost over.

It’s standing on tiptoes and scanning the road and listening for the sound of diesel engines.

It’s a train of white buses and heart in your throat and tears springing fast and a beehive of thoughts while we cheer and we smile and we jump in high heels.

It’s a swarm of camouflage and everyone running and seeing his face and realizing you screamed and running through the people and little boys getting there faster and wrapping your arms around his neck and never ever ever ever wanting to let go.

It’s knowing that

now

you don’t need to let go.

It’s over.

It’s over.

It’s been a really long year. Really, really long.

Thank you for holding my hand while I floundered and wandered and worked it all out in words.

I love you all.

He’s home.

It’s over.

It’ll continue to be a little quiet around here while I kiss my husband and try to process all of these various transitions. My brain is still having trouble keeping up. I know you understand. I’ll be back sometime.

Related:
What It Is – part one
What It Is – part two

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