Patrol Base Whiskey I, Mahmudiyah, Iraq, 2008

x

I lie awake and wait

for the sound of crunching rocks

rolling

under heavy feet

as if I could will him

to come home to me.

.

I steady my breath,

stare into the dark,

disappointed

I wait

for the lord’s answer

to tonight’s prayer.

And in defiance of his will

I listen

for the sound of rolling rocks

crunching

under feet,

heavy

and weighed down

by ammo and armor

as if I could just will him

to come home to me.

.

And I think of fateful nights

and wonder at what hour

a widow realizes

no more will she hear

the familiar sound

of safe return.

Is this one such night?

Still and silent

but reserving the space

for the sound

of crunching rocks?

.

Just the thought

of clinging to some object,

some article of clothing

some inadequate remnant of him,

curled up

and trying to extract

the last bit of scent

from his black

fleece

cap

as if I could pull him back

into this world

through scent alone …

.

Just the thought

of this inevitable

mourning ritual

immediately chokes me,

come tears,

and I push the thought away

and lay

listening

for the sound of crunching rocks

rolling under heavy feet

until I hear

the answer to my prayer,

the thump-thump

of dusty boots

clunking

onto our wooden welcome mat.

.

And a swing—not a knock–

tells me it is no messenger

no reaper

no visitor

who brings unwelcome news,

but it is the one soldier

who need not knock

to open my door

finally

coming home to me.

.

© 2008