Jan. 03, 2003 ~ A friend,
whose husband was in the military during the Viet Nam era, told me yesterday that it was not uncommon for families to go six months or more without hearing from their soldiers. My jaw nearly hit the floor. "War-times," she said. But this isn't war-time... or is it? It is a very strange situation. Have we ever been in this position before? Fighting an invisible enemy, not one people but certain persons? That's Afghanistan. I don't even want to think about Iraq or what might happen. I want to tell the politicians to think... THINK about this, consider what they're doing. One politician has moved to reinstate the draft. His theory is that if his fellow senators and congressmen had children and grandchildren in harm's way, they would think twice about their actions. That's a nice thought, but would they not find ways to keep their own children safe? Surely they would.
Soldier Boy inhabits my dreams. And still there is no letter, no word. I listen to the news, read the headlines, and my thoughts grow dark. We don't even know where he is. Another friend told me that she hadn't been especially worried, when she heard that a member of his Division had been killed, because she knew Soldier Boy was not supposed to be in that area. But we have no idea, not even a clue, where he is now. He could be anywhere. I have an idea of where he ISN'T. I don't think he's anywhere near a base, and he isn't near a computer or phone. He was so good about writing and calling in the past; I can't believe that he would just stop. I know he would get word to us if he could.
What is he thinking? Does the mail delay work both ways? Is he over there wondering why on earth we don't write? Does he feel we have forgotten him? He knows better, in his heart, but what must it be like, day after day, not to hear from us? I know how hard it is on this end, but here we have the comforts of home. Routine. Animals, friends, loved ones. What does he have there, to occupy his thoughts? Trying to stay alive. It doesn't always make the news here, at least not the front page, but our boys over there continue to get shot. I guess it doesn't seem like that big a deal, one or two or four soldiers getting shot or having grenades thrown at them, here and there. But it's a huge deal, if one of those soldiers is yours.
It didn't really sink in, when I was a kid. Viet Nam. They'd give the casualty numbers every night on the news, and we would nod solemnly. Friends lost older brothers, uncles, other loved ones. And I was sad for them, but I really didn't "get it."
I get it now.
I just want my son to come home, safe and sound. I want him here, fishing in the pond, or helping with the cattle, playing video games with his brother, or cooking fajitas. I want to see him sleeping on the couch, his feet hanging over the edge. I want to pick up the paper without fear, read the news websites without trepidation, and be able to plan for the future. I want him here for Christmas, for Thanksgiving. I want what every mother wants, I guess.
Peace.
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