As I post this, my son has just completed "Hell Week" at boot camp. I can only assume the week lived up to its name, and hold a knowing in my heart that he has come through it well.
It's funny...I thought that as we continued along this journey together, the perceived separation would get easier as time went on. I believe this has been the longest I've ever gone without seeing his face since that day nearly 24 years ago when I first held him in my arms and discovered that this beautiful being I'd grown inside my belly had indeed decided to be a boy.
I'd ordered girls, you see, partly because I hoped to avoid what I'm experiencing now. I never wanted to give my children up to the military. I even named him after Bob Dylan; very likely inspired subconsciously to insure this current eventuality would never happen. Despite my best efforts, however, we've arrived at this place.
I miss my boy. I miss his face. I miss hearing his voice and spending Friday nights watching Camelot on Starz with a bowl of popcorn between us. I miss hugging him and breathing in his scent from his shirt. I miss giving him massages while imploring him repeatedly to keep his promise to not volunteer to be a medic for the Marines. After awhile, I'd condensed that request down to a simple statement: "Stay the HELL away from the Marines!" (Not that I have anything against the Marines...I just don't like where they are right now.)
What I have now in place of the above is a weekly letter that arrives in the mailbox every Wednesday. It's usually a one-pager, because he is exhausted and allowed precious little time to write home. I cherish every word as if from a sacred text...because it is. My baby touched this paper. He wrote these words, and they are sacred to me.
Through all of my suffering, I feel gratitude that I even have this much...truly I do.
I just thought it would get easier to miss him. It hasn't.
