THE LAST GOODBYE |
December 28, 2009
Name: Six Foot Skinny
Posting date: 12/28/09
Stationed in: Iraq
Hometown: Minneapolis, MN
Milblog: Lost in the Desert
The alarm goes off way too early. But then, when does an alarm ever go off at the right time? It’s always too early or too late. She stirs a little, makes some cute noises. I leave her sleeping. She didn’t need to be up yet. Kitchen. Coffee started. Bathroom. Shower started. Teeth brushed. Water’s warm. Shower. Turn off the coffee. Shave. Wake her up. Good morning kiss. She tells me to quit looking at her like that. Like what? Like you’re going to miss me.
She makes me fried eggs and toast for breakfast. The bread in Iraq is terrible -- Wonder bread or brown Wonder bread – and we can’t have runny yolks with our fried eggs. She eats cereal and yogurt. We don’t say much. There’s not much to say. It feels odd to put my uniform back on. I’ve been living in my favorite pair of blue jeans for the last two weeks, and loving it. The boots are particularly uncomfortable.
Last check of the apartment. Didn’t bring much home, think I got it all. A last look around. I like this place. It smells and feels like everything that is home. Down the stairs and out the door. The weather has been mild. I take credit for that. Not too cold in the car. The slightest drizzle in the air and on the windshield. Perfect for the occasion really.
Short drive to the airport. She pulls up to the curb and turns off the car. We have decided that coming in to see me to the gate sounds like a better idea than it actually is. We look at each other. We get out. Hug. Kiss. Cry. Like the drizzle -- just a little. Go, so you can come back. And I do. So I can. The last time.