Saturday, September 15, 2007


I am at work, and suppose I am to be doing something that can be considered productive in the eyes of the Hospital. Instead, I am sitting with a large mug of hot cocoa in front of a computer screen and trying to blog. But my mind drifts to John. The small things he does that tell me, without words, that he really does love me. A quick sniff of my hair when we hug. His big man-hand on the small of my back when I walk through a door before him. These little things are us. What will I do without those tiny moments on a daily basis? Will I adapt? Or will I painfully miss them every moment of every day until he is with me again?
Is there anyone who can give me the answers or do I just have to wait and discover them for myself? You know, this morning, when I returned home from work at 0700, I sat on the sofa beside him, my head on his chest, feeling his heart beat, and I started to tear up yet again. Without looking at my face, but simply with the twitch of a shoulder, he can tell I am either crying or attempting desperately to avoid crying. And he said "If you don't want me to go, I won't go." I wanted so badly to shout, "Yes! That is what I want. Stay home with me. Don't go! Be here with me where you are safe!" But then I remember how happy and motivated this has seemed to make him, and I can't do it. If he is going to stay a civilian, he must do it because he wants it, not because I could not suck it up and let my grip on him loosen enough. So I cry. I cry where he will not see me: in my car on the way to work, at work in between patients, at night when the house is quiet with sleep. Then I allow myself enough time for the tear tracks to vanish before seeing him again. He will never know, if I can help it.

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