The Final Days

As a military brat, we celebrated the two-digit midget days when we got to go home after an overseas PCS. No matter how you adapted to the country you were sent to, there's nothing like 'home' even if home ends up being an assignment in a new state. The point is, being stateside. So, to celebrate P.'s recent step into the digit midget realm, I bring you a walk through memory lane. Feel free to stop reading here ;)

Again, the bookends of memory. P. leaving for three months 15 years ago, off to the never-ending stress of Parris Island. And then this year, three months overseas in a high conflict area. With both, he had long hours, but we have done our best to be in daily contact. In '92, I wrote to him daily and cherished every letter I got back. This time, thanks to the internet, we haven't just had phone calls when he can fit them in and care packages winging their way to him from us, but email and IMs. Even better, the pictures we've been able to send back and forth. How wonderful it's been for him to be able to go to YouTube and see our kids, hear them talking to him and feel more of a part of their daily lives.

Just like I was reminded of the goodbye 15 years ago, so I am thinking of the hello. As the summer waned in '92, I was in contact with his mom, making plans to drive to SC. One of his uncles would drive his van. We'd all ride together and stay in a hotel. I remember his mom giving me a Mary Kay makeover- so NOT me. Showing me the clothes she bought him for his second year in college (even then, I knew the white jeans were SO not him).

The first glimpse of him, right up in front of his platoon, just behind the guidon bearer (is that what USMC calls it? I dunno, it's what my title was when I did the same thing in AF JROTC).


I held back and let his mom be the first to greet him. But when I hugged him, I never wanted to let go. I worried about that darn Mary Kay makeup rubbing off on his uniform. I felt like I was wearing a mask.


I remember watching his confirmation into the Catholic faith. The actual graduation ceremony, I can't remember much. I do remember thinking this is what the ceremonies we 'played' at with JROTC looked like when they were real. I remember sitting in the heat, being impatient with every moment of military pomp and ceremony that kept us apart. His gifts of a necklace and a pin with the stoic USMC boot camp official picture on them.

I remember the ride home, running my hand over his thigh, leaning against him, just soaking him in.

Going out to a date at the local Pizza Hut that night, his ex-girlfriend was our waitress. I couldn't believe the gall of her afterwards, calling him over and trying to rub up on him, purring who knows what. Funny if you think about it, since his most burning memory of her was finding her in the closet in flagrante delicto with one of his closest friends at the time. He all but laughed in her face this time and walked away.

He shared with me the picture he carried in his hat the entire 13 weeks. It should have been confiscated, but when his DI found it, the DI pretended he didn't see it. It's in our scrapbook now, but you can see the remnants of its time at Parris Island:


Now, not knowing the exact time yet, and knowing he has to take care of the business of coming back after a extended assignment, such as getting his car out of 'storage', I don't know what to expect- even less so than in '92. Will he be home in time before the kids go to sleep and we can celebrate as a family? Or will he be home after they are in bed and we can have a few precious hours of just us? The dog is the only one not expecting him back. She stopped looking up at the sound of cars after a few weeks. Such an unexpected surprise will send her into new heights of spastic running in circles, I am sure.

But what of me? What will I be feeling after all we have been through in these months? The ups and downs and tears and promises? Will I feel like I am wearing a mask yet again? Or will I let myself feel the joy and relief that is sure to flow through the door in his wake?