The day he proposed to me I promised that I would stay by his side to the ends of the Earth and beyond. He was my Mr. Right. But when he told me that he wanted to join the military and fight in the war overseas I was at first reluctant to keep my promise; but I was so in love that I was willing to join him. Now that I look back at it I realize that I should’ve went with my gut feeling, I should’ve convinced him stay at home with me in the safety of our now-empty apartment.
We left for our tour almost six years ago, but the memory of that day makes it feel like it only just happened a second ago. And every night I’d dream of his soft hands caressing my face, his body hugging me telling me to be calm. And every time I awake it starts again: the flooding memories of watching him pass under the blazing sun in the lifeless, burning sand returned as if to mock my very life.
As we prepared to raid the enemy’s territory nobody was panicked except for me. I would never get used to fighting like this. But before I could shoot him a concerning glance he was already out in the open, his gun fully loaded and pointed at the enemy. But that’s when it all went wrong.
It flew by in slow motion: the flash of light, the short-lived trembling of the ground, the blood spraying the air tainting the yellow sand as it touched the ground. There were a few caught in the blast, but I knew in my heart that he was one of them. The sinking feeling in my stomach sent ghostly shivers throughout my entire body.
I jumped out no longer caring about the bullets whizzing by my body or my falling comrades being engaged in the heat of battle. One of them tugged harshly at my collar but there was no use. I wasn’t going to leave him alone. I silently prayed that he would be alright, that maybe I was dreaming. There was another tug at my uniform that brought me abruptly to my feet. As I was dragged away the tears began to mix with the hot sand kicked up by the wind, turning my eyes red with a burning sensation. For days I was in total shock. I didn’t eat and hardly slept until my own body grew limp from weakness.
When his body was sent back to the States, just the thought of never being able to hear his voice, the sight of his smile, drove me insane. I only lasted a couple of weeks without him. He was the only reason I came here and without him I only wanted to leave this retched place. My mental state had driven so south they had no choice but to send me back. I knew even during the flight back that my comrades disapproved of me. None of them could, or would, understand the bond I held with him. I wished that I’d been able to stay with him as he died like I promised, that I’d had the time to slip the engagement ring from out of my jacket pocket and onto my finger and to do the same with his. I would have gladly died there with him.
Although I came back home to the open, loving arms of my family, I couldn’t have felt more distanced from them. Only the preparations for the funeral took precedence on my agenda. Despite getting myself mentally prepared for that dreadfully approaching day, there was nothing to soothe my grievance when I glanced at his face for the final time or when his casket descended into the ground.
Far long in the night, after the ringing of the honorary shots fired quieted into silent breezes, long after the last mourner shuffled to their car to join their life love, I was still there. I came back armed with a blanket and a pillow. Sitting in front of his grave I continued to weep even after the well of tears had dried and evaporated, becoming one with the surrounding mist of the graveyard. I held our rings tightly in my palm as if to squeeze the very life out of them to resurrect him.
This is how I spent every night for a year. Eventually I convinced myself that I should start seeing a therapist. The one at the VA hospital was a lot of help, but I couldn’t disperse the shadowing feeling that he was always judging me for the worse. I didn’t really expect him to be of much understanding anyway.
