DECEMBER
2007
~
I
am thinking about movement today.
I
am thinking about movement and about its absence.
About a bomb lodged underneath the
unarmored Ford pickup truck my husband drives, every single day, up and down
the road they call the Highway of Death. About
how a bomb will force his pickup, up, into the air, and how it will force his
body, up, into the air. About how his head may blow up or fly, fly across the
road, his head, and land somewhere else.
I am thinking about how, here, at
home, time feels like it is standing still while my husband is away. And about
how time marches on. About how horrible this deployment is, but, as the days
turn into months, how it has gotten easier, and even more enjoyable, this time
I have now, time which is only my time.
I am thinking about America. This
country I live in, about how we all seem to pretend the war is not happening.
Because I am thinking about movement today, thinking about movement and about
its absence.
~
I watch the news, sitting, here, on
my bed, which used to be our bed, except, now, my husband is gone. And I am
watching the war on television again, this footage that has been edited and
squeezed into something that can fit between two commercials. How this war has
become a product, packaged into tearful homecomings and loyal dogs and sweet
wives.
I have seen this happen before.
How 9/11 was turned into a tourist
attractions. T-shirts and car decals and miniature Twin Tower snow globes.
But
the truth, I say, out loud, to the television.
The
truth is something different.
The truth is that war and terror are this.
An amputated leg, a dead body, a road littered with bombs, a lost country, with
children, children like ours, living in war, and soldiers coming home, soldiers
who have given so much, that they have nothing else to give.
JANUARY
2008
~
When you are a military wife, your
life is full of holes.
Your husband goes to war.
He is gone. And there is a hole in
the calendar, the hole where days fall and never come back, where time has
stopped but still goes on. And while he is gone, you think about it, about what can happen. You think about him
getting killed. And about how, how they will lower him into a hole, dug into
the ground, a flag draped over the coffin. You think about him getting shot, a
hole in his head, where the doctors will put a metal plate. You think about him
getting blown up, blown up by a roadside bomb, his right leg amputated, that
missing limb. And you don’t know yet. You don’t know about the other holes.
More holes, the holes that will come later, if you are lucky, lucky enough, and
he comes home alive.
My husband has been gone for one
year.
And I think about it, about what can
happen, all the time. As I lay, in our bed, a hole next to me, this space where
his body used to be.
~
On 9/11, I fell, down, in the
street,
After the Tower fell, down, behind
me.
A man I did not know lifted me up,
His fingers in my armpits,
Asking me, a thick German accent,
What
is your name and how, when I told him,
He smiled, repeating it, Amalie
Because my name is German too,
Pointing up, to a window,
On the side of an office building,
And I followed him up a fire escape,
Into an empty room, empty desks,
empty chairs,
Sitting in a chair at a desk, someone else’s.
And using the telephone, calling my
mother,
Saying the words I am still alive.
Now my husband is calling me, calling me
from a payphone in Kabul, his voice, almost lost, in static, telling me, how,
he is still alive. And I know. I know what those words mean. How they really
mean, I almost died today.
~
It is early morning in Afghanistan, not even five your time, I say, into the
telephone, to my husband, who is breathing, back, to me, on the other end. And
I am distracted, because I am busy, driving somewhere, the radio on, and our
son, talking, in the backseat.
I say, it’s your Daddy, to my son, but into the telephone, to my husband,
who is standing at the front of a long line, ready, in full battle rattle,
helmet, armor, fatigues, boots, and gun, but waiting, waiting for his turn to
call me, and hear my voice, before he goes, just another day, driving down the
Highway of Death.
And when I hang up the telephone,
things feel heavier.
A machine gun hanging at my
husband’s side, that conversation we just had, his words and mine, the ones I
said, and the weight of the ones I forgot to say, and the days and nights
stretching out in front of both of us, now, that it is done.
But this is just part of being a military
wife.
How when your husband calls you from
war, you are not always ready, even though, even though this could be the last
time.
~
You
must miss him.
Everyone says that, says you must miss him.
And I always say I do, how I do, I miss him.
But the truth is this. Deployment is hard.
And deployment can be easy. My husband has been gone for over a year, now. And,
yes, I miss him. But some days I
don’t. I don’t miss him.
This is deployment. It is the pain
of missing him. And it is the pain of not missing him. Some days I forget about
him. Because it has been so long, too long, this separation.
Amalie Flynn is an American writer and the author of WIFE
AND WAR: THE MEMOIR and two blogs: WIFE AND WAR and SEPTEMBER ELEVENTH.
Flynn’s WIFE AND WAR poetry has appeared in THE NEW YORK TIMES
AT WAR and in TIME’S
BATTLELAND, has appeared in her blog for THE HUFFINGTON POST, and
has received mention from THE
NEW YORK TIMES MEDIA DECODER. Her SEPTEMBER ELEVENTH blog has received
mention from CNN.
In addition, her WIFE AND WAR blog has a global readership, with readers from
over 90 countries. WIFE AND WAR: THE MEMOIR is her first book.