War

The concrete beneath my feet had already begun to soak up the heat. Birds were calling out their shrill morning songs. A few houses down someone started a lawnmower, eager to get the Saturday yard work started. I stared out at our front yard and took a sip of tea. You opened the door behind me and sat down. The silence around us didn’t last long as little feet followed you outside. Soon chalk was being drawn around us on the walkway and stories were being told by excited voices. It was a perfect small town Saturday morning. 

“This is a totally inappropriate question to ask right now” I broke into the sound of our kids playing around us “but, do you ever get stuck back there?”

You look at me, your forehead creasing slightly “Stuck? Back there? No. Not stuck, but...”

“Well, not stuck.” I say quickly trying to defend my question, “but do you ever just think about it all so much that you forget what you’re doing now because you’re so preoccupied with what happened?”

You don’t answer for a moment as you drink your coffee and take in the sight of our three kids drawing bright colors on the concrete.  

“Yeah. Not stuck” you say again “But, yeah, sometimes I think about it a lot and it’s hard to focus on being here.” 

I nod and look down at the chalk lines being drawn around my feet. Orange and pink.

“I got stuck yesterday.” I say not looking up from the colors. I see you nod knowingly out of the corner of my eye. “It started when I watched that movie trailer, you know the new one about the guy who tries to save his interpreter?” 

Blue and yellow. 

You nod again.

“And I just got stuck” I continue “I couldn’t think about anything else. I was trying to tie the twins’ shoes and I kept imagining you over there, and all the feelings of not knowing if you would come or not just flooded over me. All of those nights of checking the news and not hearing from you. Everyone we lost. And the girls were yelling at me to put their shoes on because I was just sitting there, just holding their shoes in my hand.” I trail off lamely. 

You nod at me again and sip more coffee.

My words hang around us for a minute. They float down and sink into the chalk pictures, our morning drinks, the fabric of our clothes.  

“I feel bad for getting stuck, when I never even went there. You know? You’re the one with all the first hand experience and if you don’t get stuck then…” I falter “Then I don’t know. It’s stupid, but I feel like I’m not allowed to get stuck. I didn’t even have to go there.” 

You look over at me and our eyes meet. You smile and shake your head slightly. 

“That’s silly, babe” you say, and your voice is gentle and understanding “You can’t compare your experiences with anyone else. All you can do is compare yourself with your past self.”

I nod and look at the kids now running circles in the dewy grass. 

“You’re allowed to have your own experiences.”  you finish simply, and there are more words in your eyes, more stories, but with a little smile I know you are done talking.  

The conversation is over. 

I nod again, looking down at my mug of tea and scoot closer to you. I rest my head on your shoulder, feeling the warmth from your body next to mine. 

The sunshine is streaming through the trees. Birds are singing their morning song. Our kids are playing in the yard in front of us. It’s a perfect Saturday morning in a small American town, and we sit there, holding our experiences from the past close, not wanting them to spill out onto this perfect spring morning.

-Helen