 | On New Chapters, Again My sleeping habits rival that of a teenage boy, which works in my favor when my husband is up before the sun. The hum of the coffee pot, the rustling of the closet hangers, the deafening squeak the ironing board makes when it opens, not even the beeping of the security system being armed can lure me from my slumber. Until it can. It happened just once, a few months ago, my mind suddenly aware of his presence in the room well before my own alarm went off. I was in no state to have a coherent conversation, for what it's worth, but I was conscious, which is more than I can say about most mornings at 5 a.m. "It's okay," I heard him say as I began to stir. "I'm getting ready to leave. Go back to sleep." I nodded in agreement, my eyes still closed as he walked around to my side of the bed. He bent down to kiss my forehead and I reached up to wrap my arms around him. As my hands clasped together against his back, I had only one thought. What is that? His training involved a great deal of physical fitness, but no back muscle could possibly be that solid. Right? Surely I would've noticed it before now. Yet here he was, an impenetrable mass from his shoulder blades to his waist. It felt more like steel than muscle, to be honest. I suddenly realized oh, yes, the bullet proof vest. I knew he had one, in theory. I had seen it from time to time, stashed in a corner or tucked away near the back of our closet. I knew he wore it, in theory. I had heard him mention it on occasion while swapping work stories in the evening. Everything up to that point had been exactly that, though – in theory. All of a sudden, the reality of the situation – of the new chapter that was about to start in our lives – was no longer theoretical. This is actually happening. The man that I love and adore more than any other human being is now in a position that requires him to wear a bullet proof vest. Every single day. It was a life-changing hug. Tomorrow he'll take an oath, an oath to protect and to serve. While the words will differ from the oath he took over seven years ago, his heart remains the same – filled with courage, integrity, selflessness. A journey more than three years in the making, culminating with months of physical, educational, and tactical training, he'll soon swap the scenarios for the streets, trade the theoretical for the tangible, his life – our life – changed forever. At least in theory :) |
On New Chapters, Again
Two Ships Passing
 | Two Ships Passing His alarm goes off at 4:30 most days. At least that's what he tells me – I've never actually been awake to confirm. Uniform on, gear squared away, out the door before I even begin to think about crawling out of bed. Before I even begin to think, period. I don't get to see him in the mornings, yet I do. The cup of coffee, extra creamer, waiting for me on the nightstand. The freshly ironed clothes draped over the end of the bed, ready for me to wear to work. The text message on my phone: Safely here. I cleaned the cat's litter box this morning, so don't worry about that. Your lunch is in the fridge. Miss you already. I love you. — Our days are long, although mine don't involve running seven miles around a semi-frozen lake in the middle of a winter storm. Mine also don't involve spending eight straight hours in a classroom, a classroom where both coffee and cell phones are prohibited. I don't get to see him in the afternoons, yet I do. The instax photo taped up next to my office computer, his face covered in scruff I've secretly missed these past six months. The ring he gave me almost four years ago, occasionally catching my gaze as my fingers move across the keyboard. The hand-written note stashed in my desk drawer: I hope you're having a good day at work. Missing you lots. I love you. — My work day ends well after his, and somewhere between the extra hours at the office, the commute, the traffic, any of his remaining energy has faded by the time I get home. If the stars align, we might get thirty minutes together before he drifts off to sleep on the couch. The stars rarely align. I don't get to see him in the evenings, yet I do. The stack of dishes in the sink, the smell of dinner still lingering in the air. The pair of black boots by the door, buffed and shined and ready to do it all again tomorrow. The phrases he mutters in his sleep, mostly gibberish, something about taking a shower and a rebel army and wait, what was that? I love you, too. — Our lives at the moment look a lot like two ships passing in the night. Yet we continue, continue treading water until we get a chance to catch our breath, or even better, to swim. We continue to make the most of the time we get to spend together. We continue to remember that this, too, is just a phase, that all dreams require hard work and sacrifice, that the end result is almost always worth it. For now, we continue to pass like two ships; yet as long as we keep sailing in the same direction, toward the same dot on the horizon, I think we'll be just fine. |
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