It finally happened: every morning I wake up I am making a conscious and increasingly difficult decision to stay. Having my mid- tour so close doesn’t make things any easier at all: rather, I am caught up in thinking about time, and how little there is of it, and how I’ve chosen to spend mine. I think about Sam being sick- his stroke not really so long ago- and Bess being dead, hung around my neck and slung around the globe. I think about my daughter’s first year of high school, and choices, and futures: now vs. then.
It’s not getting easier.
I pine for my husband and daughter as though we’d broken it off; that nostalgic ache, distant, constant: the dragging hole in the chest. I am subject to the most sudden and crushing bouts of yearning for the absolutely unobtainable: the smell of her hair, his hands, their laughter. Home. It’s primarily but not only them, of course: I miss silence, and long drives, I miss my backyard and my pets. I miss my friends. Hell, I miss 8- 10 hour days, damnit: I miss those like I’d never have believed.
I miss the autumn smell of leafrot, crisp air, color.
Agh, writing about this isn’t helping me at all. Off to the gym to sweat it off.