Misty

I wrote the below a few years ago in response to a writing prompt about a memorable moment. When I re-read it recently, I thought about overhauling it, but decided to leave it in its original form. It illustrates a bit of the fear, loneliness, and anxiety families of our deployed service members experience.  

“I’m going to die in a fiery inferno after all.” I laughed out loud at the irony.  All my life I knew that’s how I would meet my maker, but I never expected it to be in a new house, all alone, 900 miles from home.  July 1st my husband unexpectedly deployed to a combat zone, leaving me in a new house, in a new town, with three diaper-wearing, time-sucking babies.  

When we looked at the house months before, we saw the cul-de-sac and children on their bikes; we saw well-manicured lawns and happy, normal families.  Maybe we saw what we wanted to, maybe the neighborhood changed in those few months.  Either way, I now lived by a house full of single, rowdy Marines, partying in a home no one was paying for.  Judging by the pink Dora toddler bed and mountain of toys I saw on trash day, the wife and kids moved out and left the Marine to live mortgage free with his buddies until the bank foreclosed on the property.    

I made it through July 4th like I made it through the three days before.  I changed about 21 diapers, fed my kids, played with them, changed their clothes, etc etc. and now, I was enjoying that moment of pure joy where everyone was finally asleep and the house was quiet.  I laid down on the couch, feeling sorry for myself.  I turned on a stupid reality show where a celebrity whined about being away from her husband for a weekend.  I turned it off.  The irony of the patriotic holiday disgusted me.  It mocked me.  My husband was at war, putting himself in danger, suffering for the cause of who really knows what at this point, serving our country, and on this day where I should be somehow honored for my sacrifice too, I’m alone in a new place and unhappy.  Normally, that entitlement attitude irritates me in others, but I was allowing myself to wallow in my self-pity.  I drifted off to sleep too exhausted to even cry.

In my hazy dreams I saw Drew.  In the distance he was running away from me, I couldn’t see his face, but I knew it was him.  I tried to catch him, but I could never run fast enough.  Explosions started going off, and I tried to warn him, but I couldn’t get the words out.  My heart raced, and my body was so tense it hurt.  Suddenly I was awake.  The explosions weren’t just in my dreams, they were a part of my reality.

I jumped off the couch, nearly falling down because my foot had fallen asleep.  Ignoring the pins and needles of my limbs coming back to life, I made my way to the back deck.  Our dog, Tucker the timid, afraid of all things thunderous, refused to join me.  As soon as I opened the door, I was hit with a wall of humidity and heat, and I heard explosions accenting the music coming from my neighbors’ yard.  I’ve never known a Marine to pass up an opportunity to play with explosives. 

I stood for a minute trying to see over the privacy fence, then I saw what was coming—bottle rockets.  Into the woods, into their yard, into MY yard, onto MY roof, where my kids were finally tucked in for the night.  “They are so stupid,” I thought, “it isn’t even dark enough for fireworks yet.”  Drunk Marines do stupid things.  Should I confront them? What should I say?  Am I being unreasonable?  Then I realized, what if something were to happen to me, I have no friends, my husband is gone, no one would notice.  I have family, but it isn’t like I talk to them every day.  How long would it be before anyone really even noticed I was gone?

Wouldn’t it be ironic for Drew to lose his family because of explosives while he’s on the other side of the world diffusing IED’s and blowing things up?  Fireworks are considered explosives, right?  Maybe I’m too obsessed with irony.

I went back inside and half-heartedly consoled trembling Tucker.  Was he upset because of our neighbor’s party or because he sensed the sadness that dragging me down into a pit of defeat.  When the kids were awake, I tried to be happy for them, but when the house was finally quiet at night and the exhaustion set it, I couldn’t fake it anymore.

I went to my room and through the closed window, heard the loud, drunken cackles from my neighbors’ deck.  They mocked me; the whole day mocked me.  Maybe the house would burn down tonight, but at this point, I just didn’t care.  I put a pillow over my head, and was asleep almost immediately.

Morning came too soon, as it always did.  I took the kids outside before the heat became unbearable, and surveyed the yard.  Bottle rockets were strewn all over my grass, some having scorched the grass beneath them. I began tossing them over the privacy fence, tempted to light them first.  My aim was good, I could get it on their roof.

My adorable one year old waddled up to me and with piercing blue eyes full of innocence asked, “Mama happy?”  

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