Tomorrow he arrives, travel weary and run down from cycles of endless activity. Often you hear the military quoted as “hurry up and wait,” but he seems nothing but hurrying. Morning rucks in darkness always seem followed by a list of tasks to complete, tomorrow he comes home after what feels far too long.
Home. What does that word even mean? The sound of it feels natural, slipping from my lips when I say, “He’s coming home.” Even so, the words slide through my brain, an amorphous concept no one seems to grasp.
“Define home,” I laugh when someone points out I only live here temporarily. Some days home only means “the place we go back to.” Perhaps the hotel, a campsite, even my car. Others the concept resolves in people, my people, the one I love.
When I last I set eyes upon him, watching him walk away without once looking back to see if my eyes hung on him as he entered the airport, my divorce still hung in limbo. He held my heart, but another held the contract. I longed to follow him, to get on that plane and make our new home where the military sent him. Somehow it never showed. I stayed strong, instead looking over my shoulder to the oncoming traffic, cursing the drivers for rushing about, leaving me trapped in urban hell.
The situation changed since that day. From one contract to another, divorced and remarried, this time to a man who respects me. For months we waited, hoping the process would move quickly, that I could live with him before long. The planning, the expectation, things kept getting in the way. It felt different, yet horribly the same.
Yet tomorrow he returns. Plans bring us to things I love, I enjoy, to a part of my life long since forgotten. Anxious and unable to sleep, I know I should rest, or at the very least work on the dreaded project looming over me, determined to crush me with its weight. Still… still....
Tomorrow he comes home. No romantic moment awaits, a sign held at the airport, flinging myself in his arms. Instead the car pulls up to the curb, he throws his bags in the car, tired beyond belief, with hardly a word to share.
No, he speaks. “Food!” he’ll cry, “I’m starving!” Undoubtedly I forget the snacks, as always, but remember his favorite C4. I’ll hand over the can, telling him to pick a place. Off we drive, looking for something to satisfy his craving.
Ultimately, I decide.
One short week feels far too little. The speed days pass feels daunting, then I pack him off to the airport again, knowing I wait until Christmas. Once again, he gets out, walking with never a look back. I drive off, cursing traffic.
I remind myself daily, “This is temporary.” The military holds all the cards. I join him when they grant permission. Until then, I satisfy myself with tomorrow.
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