Windows to the Soul

A story of a young woman watching her father leave, once again, for war.

The wind blows my hair into my eyes as I survey the field around me. Families are gathered in small clumps on a desolate dry patch of grass in the middle of the post. The tension in the air is palpable. There is distance between all of us but as my gaze travels the length of the field and back I see the same sorrow etched on everyone’s features, no matter how hard they try to hide it.  We are all gathered on this field for the same thing, to say goodbye to a loved one. I glance to the right and see my mother and father whispering to each other, while my mother fusses over my father’s uniform for the last time. A nervous tick she has developed over the years as each goodbye took its toll. The wind whips my hair into a frenzy, blocking my view momentarily. I couldn’t help but remember the last time I had to say goodbye; the pattern was always the same… 

I think the waiting is the worst. You hurry to get everything ready for their departure, just to wait. They get their orders to the hellish place they must visit and then you hurry and pack all their things into their duffle, hurry to make sure everything is in place for their extended leave, and hurry to say your goodbyes. But once the goodbyes are exchanged then you wait. You wait for the bus to come and take them away. You wait for the bus to leave. You struggle through the long wait for them to come home. 

As the wind dies down I notice my father looking at me. He smiles and puts on a brave front but his eyes… his eyes convey all the emotions his mouth refuses to utter. I see his pain at having to leave us once again, I see the love he has for us. But when I look close enough I can see the fear. He is about to be transported to a place of uncertainty and peril. Every day may be his last, every action he takes can be the decision that ends his life. He is a soldier, a man of action. It is his duty to put his life on the line. It is a noble cause and yet I can’t help but selfishly ask myself why he must be the one to right the wrongs of the world, why I must suffer without him while he suffers in hell. I look down, pushing this thought from my mind knowing it will cause me nothing but pain. That will reflect in my face more than it already does. I am attempting to put on a strong face for my father, just as he does for me, it will not do for my eyes to betray me. 

In my haste to avert my eyes I miss the bus that has come to take my father to hell arriving. I can’t tell if I am relieved, or distraught. My waiting for the moment has ended, but soon the real waiting will begin. My father could be gone for three months… six months… a year… maybe even longer. The length of his deployment is determined by the military, something they will only divulge when he arrives in the pits. Hearing the bus rumbling toward us slowly, I take in my father one last time discreetly. He is standing tall and proud, at parade rest, in his uniform. Everything is prim and proper, perfect before the ravages of war make him and his uniform unrecognizable. The bus rolls to a stop about twenty feet away and the commander calls for his soldiers to board the bus and make their final goodbyes. 

When my father looks at me again his strong front is gone. His eyes are conveying everything he feels in earnest. Nothing is hidden from me as I consider his eyes and he considers mine.  He hoists his duffle over his shoulder and our eyes meet once again. He is staring at me with desolate eyes, eyes full of pain and misery, eyes that are attempting to hold back tears. He knows that this will be the last time he can show weakness. His long legs cross the few feet between us effortlessly, my mother following close behind. When he reaches me he cups my face gently, asking me to be strong and to take care of my mother. No words are spoken yet this message is conveyed in the look he gives me with those eyes, the eyes that haunt my dreams. He turns to my mother next and no words are exchanged just a sweet kiss. They know that everything has been said in the hushed whispers that permeated their bedroom the night before. He pulls us both into a loving hug, and I cling to him. I cling to him as if it’s the last time I’ll touch him, because for all I know it might be. He is going to an area of turmoil, a place he knows he may never return from. We never address this though, choosing to hope for the best and ignore the worst. If we verbalize our fears in this moment it almost feels like a death sentence, so we stay quiet and hide our true feelings until we have all retreated to the private corners of our mind.

Our goodbyes have been exchanged and at this point any delay will cause us more pain, so my father turns and begins walking. He is walking away from me, my mother, from our life. The strength I have clung to so desperately fails me and that is when the tears come. They wet my lashes and fall from my cheeks into a puddle on the ground. They come so fast and so swiftly I feel as though I may drown the world. My mother puts her arm around me, to comfort me, but tears fall just as swiftly down her cheeks and I find no comfort in her embrace. I already yearn for the arms of my father, the father that is swiftly making his way to a bus that will take him away from me to do a job that will change him, a job that potentially could change the world. The thought I pushed from my mind earlier assaults me once again, so swiftly that I have no time to fight it. A memory from the night before comes unbidden into my mind. I asked my father why he must be the one to go. Why he must be the one to put his life on the line. He explained to me in the simplest of terms that bad men were causing trouble, and that he must go and stop them, if he doesn’t no one will. My sorrow has over taken me.  I wonder if our suffering will ever end, it seems to me that it never will. This is the third time I have watched my father walk away from me and every time my father comes back a little bit less the loving, caring man I know and a bit more the void, chipped toy soldier. These thoughts break my heart evermore. As they race through my mind the tears fall even faster to the point where I’m almost blinded. My father is almost to the bus, and I cannot hold back the choked sob that escapes my throat.

            When my father turns one last time before ascending the steps to his destiny, I put on a brave smile and lift my hand to wave and blow one last kiss. I know he will think back on this moment to give him strength in the private times of his weakness, the times when he lays in bed and wonders what he does this for. I know he thinks of me and my future, I know he thinks of my mother and how he must provide for us. I am determined to give him something positive to look back on in his times of vulnerability, and my hand is still lifted in farewell when the bus pulls away. Despite my momentary strength, once the bus is out of sight my legs fail me. I fall to my knees, allowing the tears to flow in earnest. I am sobbing and howling for my father, the father I may never see again, the father that may never hold me again. My mother comes and lifts me to my feet. Nevertheless, I still wish they were my father’s arms, I know she feels the same. 

            Our eyes meet in shared misery, tears are falling from both of our eyes rapidly. We grasp each other tightly, finding some small comfort in this timeless embrace. Knowing the time has come to face our reality, sobbing and shaking we both make our way to the car. Our arms still wrapped around one another offering minute release from the pain clawing at our chests with a barbed wire sting. We get in the car and as I look fixedly out of the window, gazing into the empty eyes that stare back at me and the tear stained face. Looking past my own visage, I watch the desolate faces of suffering pass me by. When any one of those faces turns to me I see the same pain reflected in their eyes. In that moment, I feel connected to every one of these people. We share a bond of pain on this day. A bond that will only solidify as we all raptly watch the nightly news in the coming weeks and months only to see countless deaths, endless bombings, and abundant terror. 

As we continue our drive home everything around me blurs, passing me by at a speed that makes me yearn for this deployment to pass just as quickly. I know this is not the reality of my existence, however, and realize that the wait I have ahead of me is so much worse than what I have just experienced. That the tears that stream down my face now will dry, but the fear and pain I feel inside will never go away. Not until my father is home, even then it is doubtful because he will leave again and the cycle will continue.  The world is a blissful blur around me, unaware of the suffering I endure. It is almost a welcome relief from the pain… almost. The burden of this wait sits heavy on my chest, even as the tears dry on my cheeks. A constant reminder that something is missing, a puzzle piece that makes me whole. A mantra runs through my head, calming me: three hundred sixty-four days, twenty-three hours, and fifty-five minutes…three hundred sixty-four days, twenty-three hours, and fifty-five minutes… three hundred sixty-four days, twenty-three hours, and fifty-five minutes. This is the estimated amount of time that must elapse before I see my father again, until he can hold me again. The waiting… the anticipation… It’s the worst, but it is my reality.