12 Months

12 months. It’s been a year since I said goodbye to you. When I drove you to the airport, I drove as slow as I possibly could. I know you knew what I was doing, delaying your departure, but you didn’t say anything. You just held my free hand, intertwining our fingers and gripping tightly. We talked about the baby that grew within me, tossing names back and forth as I drove. I could feel you watching me, when I glanced at you, you would just be smiling as you watched me.

“Callan if it’s a boy. Casey if it’s a girl,” you had said as if you were casting a vote. You said they were strong names for the strong baby that would be waiting for you when you got home.

I stopped the car outside of the airport. We both made our way to the back of the car where you opened the trunk and pulled out your duffle bag. It had our last name written in black lettering across the strap that you flung over your shoulder. I watched you as you moved, memorizing the way you looked. Short blonde hair, bright blue eyes that always seemed to be laughing. Your 6’2 frame always looked so much bigger when you were dressed in your Army Combat Uniform.

“12 short months,” you whispered as you hugged me tightly. I closed my eyes and immersed myself in everything that was you: your smell, your warmth, your strength. I wanted to remember you like this until we were together again. I didn’t want to let go, but you moved slightly back and kissed me. Then, laying your forehead against mine, you smiled and told me you loved me.

I watched as you entered the airport; you always turn back before entering. The doors opened, you turned, looked back, smiled, blew me a kiss, and then disappeared inside. I drove home in silence. The tears and loneliness threatened to consume me then, but I held them at bay. If you were brave enough to go to war for your country, I was brave enough to at least get to the privacy of our home before I lost my composure.

Six months. It has been six months since I welcomed our beautiful baby boy, Callan, to the world. You were right, he needed a strong name. Everything went exactly as it was planned, except that you were not here. He was born at 8:16 in the morning. He looks like you: same blue eyes, same blonde hair. Like you, he is always watching me with a look of love and admiration. I know I’m projecting that, but let me have it. He has so much to learn, and such big shoes to fill. I wonder, will he have that slow smile of yours? Will he run his hand through his hair when he’s trying to solve a problem? Will he have that infectious laugh or that need for adventure like his father? Will he have your heart, your kindness, your passion? If he has those, then I have less to worry about. If he received your goodness, then the world is that much better.

I miss you so much. Even though Callan hasn’t met you, I know he misses you too.

Four months. It has been four months since Callan’s first smile. He looked right up at me and it spread so slowly over his lips, then he cooed like he wanted to talk to me. I held him and told him about his father. I told him about how you dropped the ring when you were proposing. You got down on one knee, just like in the movies, you held up the ring, and you asked. You were so nervous, you dropped the ring before I could even answer. Spoiler, I said, “yes.”

I told him about our honeymoon. Our mountain retreat in Aspen, Colorado. We explored trails, rode the gondola, and went horseback riding. I told him how his father loved to fish. I told him about that cabin at Lake Texoma, about the weekend we spent there. We rented that little cabin right on the lake. It was so peaceful. The weather was perfect; it was sunny, but not too hot. We spent our time fishing, talking, swimming, making love. It was good that the little cabin was secluded. It was just the two of us when it started, there were three of us when we left.

One month. It has been one month since I started preparing for your return. One month! You’ll be home in four short weeks. The time has gone by so slowly. I have kept a calendar and have marked each day off. I have to take it one day at a time. One year seems like forever, one day is doable. I celebrate the small victories. You taught me that. That sometimes when you look at the big picture, you miss out on all the small marvels that happen around you at any given time. Sometimes, you need to narrow your scope, so I have narrowed it to days. Tomorrow hasn’t come, yesterday has passed, but today… I am here, I am present. Since the birth of our boy, my days are a little more enjoyable. I have a piece of you that I can hold and love while you are so far away.

Two weeks. It has been two weeks since they knocked on my door. Two weeks since I heard the words, "I have been asked to inform you that your husband has been reported dead in Kabul, Afghanistan. He was shot while protecting fellow soldiers. On the behalf of the Secretary of Defense, I extend to you and your family my deepest sympathy in your great loss.”

It’s our great loss. Our baby, our family, our friends, me. How do I go on without you? How do I teach our son everything that you were supposed to teach him? I can’t sleep; I lay awake and think about how you will never hold me. I’ll never feel your arms around me, your lips on mine. I’ll never hear you laugh, or hear you say I love you. I’ll never see you take Callan to his first day of school, or on his first fishing trip. Right now, all I can think about are the ‘nevers.’ Have you ever felt like the world has lost its light? How do I go on?

Two days. It has been two days since I received the package. It sits in the middle of our dining table. A small box wrapped in plain brown paper, our address printed neatly in your handwriting, no return address.

I stare at the box and slowly run my finger over the grainy textured paper. Taking a deep breath, I run a utility knife over the paper and peel it off. I have to stop for a moment. An overwhelming wave of anguish and hurt rolls through me. I blink back tears before running the same knife over the packing tape that closed the package.

The box top pops open and I can see a yellow piece of paper on top of two small boxes. In one box is a carved rock in the shape of a soldier. It looks remarkably like my husband. In the other is a silver necklace with a small jeweled pendant. I hold the pendant with one hand and with the other I shakily open the yellow paper.

Dearest Leah,

I found these at the bizarre and decided to send you gifts. I know I may get there before they do, but it seemed important to get them to you. The carved soldier is for Callan. Tell him I love him. Tell him I can’t wait to finally hold him. The necklace is for you, it’s an Ailm. It’s a symbol of strength and healing. It seems funny to give this to you, you're the strongest woman I know.

I have to get this out to you, but know I’ll be loving you from afar and counting the days until you’re in my arms again.

Always,

Alex