Ground Control to Major Tom. Commencing Countdown, Engines On.
We went grocery shopping the other day. We filled carts with cucumbers, and crackers, bananas and canned tuna. We stocked up on toilet paper, and cleaning supplies, frozen meat and pickles. It probably looked like we were preparing for the end the world, and in a sense we were.
“Wow!” our 8-year-old marveled at the stocked shelves when he got home from school that afternoon “you guys got a lot this time!’
It was the last big shopping trip before you will leave on your six-month deployment, so yes, we did get a lot. You normally stock and replace all of the miscellaneous household items, like toothpaste and toilet paper. You have a system as to what gets ordered and what you buy in store. The cabinets in the hallway upstairs look like the back shelves at the stores we buy the items from. Everything is lined up, everything has its place.
“I feel like it’s my first day on a new job.” I joke as we stand before the open cabinets, while you explain what goes where and when things will need to be ordered again.
“Sorry,” you say smiling “You gotta take over sometimes.”
I shrug not knowing what else to say, because it’s true I will have to take over.
The few weeks leading up to your departure are always hazy with fighting and making love, conversations about financial goals and relearning how to change a tire, just in case. It’s been a caotic mess of tickle fights with the kids, and taking pictures and videos of you playing with them, because soon they will be asking for “Daddy Videos”. The knowledge that soon you will be leaving us hangs around fog down at the beach on a cold winter morning. It sits, thick, permeating every conversation and thought. And then sometimes, the sun shines through the dense clouds. We forgot what is coming for us. everything feels normal and were in the kitchen making dinner and flirting while our oldest sits in the dining room doing homework. The twins play Uno in the living room and occasionally shout with excitement or frustration. Everything is normal, and I forget that the engines are on, forget that the countdown has started. And then I open the refrigerator and grab the milk to add a splash into my evening cup of tea. It’s a sunny, picturesque day until I notice the expiration date on the side of the oat milk and realize that you will be gone before the milk expires. The smoke from the engine wafts around me in the kitchen, as I stand frozen, staring at the carton while you stir something on the stove. All at once I can’t breathe. I remember I’m on the rocket, about to blast off into space. Or maybe you are. Maybe I’m the one left behind. Now and forever, counting down until you come home back to us again. Until dates on a carton of milk won’t trigger silent tears in the kitchen at dinner time.
-HR