Wistful

I miss The Huz.

Sounds kind of stupid, especially since we spent the whole day together on the Fourth of July. I’m not kidding, the entire day, just he and I in the car and exploring our city. Now, it’s three days later and I can’t help but wish he were home.

I was a Soldier’s wife. For more than 23 years, I stood beside a man who took an oath to defend our Constitution against all enemies. When we were dating, he told me he wanted to join the Army. He even took me to the recruiter and told me to ask him all the questions I had after watching a ten minute VHS tape. Then, he told me, “If you’re not in, I’m not in.” All smiles and in gooey love, I couldn’t think of a question to ask, so I batted my eyes and he signed the paper. We were so very young. Two years ago, (thankfully) he retired.

I was asked by civilians all the time how it was that I could get through the separations. That was honestly *THE* most asked question. In those two decades, he was gone to Korea for two years (two tours), Iraq for two years (two tours), Haiti for six months, and we were geographically separated for a grand total of five years for various schools, trainings, exercises, orders to different duty stations, and the like. Geographically separated (at least for the Army) means that we were still very much married but were voluntarily living apart for important reasons (usually school or other things having to do with the kids). Somehow, we made it when we know so many who did not.

I spent my nights exhausted, praying God would shield him and would make me strong. What God did was put in my head the confidence that everything would work out. I felt plenty weak. I was often scared. I was usually weary, but I never questioned that he would come home to me. And he always did.

In some ways, the demands of his civilian job are harder. When the Army called, with her demands and late hours and her years away, I quickly learned to suck it up and drive on because, *The Army* . . . I would sporadically allow myself a little pity party, but it didn’t last long. Now, he works six days a week most weeks. Monday through Friday, he leaves home about six in the morning and I don’t usually see him again until nine or ten at night. On those nights, dinner is served whenever the hell I feel like it. On Saturday morning, he will go in and work for four or five hours. Sometimes that runs long and other times, he will have to run parts to one of his satellite locations, so he will call home and tell me to meet him so I can ride with him. I suppose I sound like a brat for saying I live for those Saturdays because he will talk the whole time we are gone, about work, his teams, what he wants for us, and no one is there to get in the way.

Tomorrow, once he returns from work, I think he will likely be under the hood of The Son’s car buttoning up the last of his engine replacement. The parts we ordered weeks ago arrived Monday, so ’tis time. I’m jealous because I want the afternoon with him, but having that car running frees me from some of my duties. Perhaps it will free The Son enough that he can go get a real job, which seems to be the discussion d’jour of the week. I am feeling incredibly jealous.

Drive on?