It happens often.
People see me carrying your 5-11 army camo backpack
as my carry-on on and off the plane.
They say— and it’s usually a man who comments, for some reason,
“Are you Military?” and
I pause and entertain
the cognitive dissonance
of the truth
of my answer.
You WERE military, but that
was before,
before
I was your wife.
So,
“Yes,” I say, “My husband—“
I neglect, on purpose, to mention the rest,
which is
“soon to be ex-husband”
because you are a stranger on the jet bridge,
and we will only speak
for the next thirty seconds or so— at most—
and why,
why
would you want to know all the messy details of my life, and how you left me,
one morning in mid-August after a trip to Kauai to celebrate our third anniversary,
or how I was feeding our not yet two year old, and my breasts were engorged,
because he was already self-weaning when you said it was over,
or about how you leaving me,
was a symptom of a psychotic episode
brought on by a bad interaction of anti-depressants,
and how I am the only one who carries these memories now,
because you conveniently forgot them— a blessed side-effect
of psychosis— I suppose.
Why would you want to know that somehow, in the process
of surrendering my marriage, you moving out, and our divorce moving
forward, I kept this dumb backpack, because
it carries EVERYTHING
and doesn’t hurt my back
when I travel alone now, with our now 4 year old,
2.5 years later.
I neglect to say to you, stranger on the jet bridge,
that being married to you was
like you were on tour overseas,
only worse,
because you were only in the next room—
miles and miles apart we were, separated by dry wall only—
the neglect of our time together made it feel more lonely
than if you had been off fighting elsewhere. Or dead.
So now, here, pushing my son up the jet bridge to our
connecting flight, I grieve the loss of you
with a stranger, in this lie I tell,
because all the years before, when I was grieving
in your presence, with you to watch,
to hear, receive my tears, my denial, my rage, my heartbreak,
did not, in the end make you stay.
To be alone in a marriage
feels a lot like Death’s quiet song.
There is nothing to do
and no thing you can say
or express
that will serve to repair the brokenness
of Neglect and Time.
So the body acclimates and wears grief
like this backpack I have on my shoulders
that bursts with his toys, snacks, clothes— all for our son—
a reminder of what I have had to carry for His sake,
because,
for whatever reason, and I still don’t know why,
you decided one day you never loved me,
but were too cowardly to say anything until
it was too late.
The man asking me smiles
at my answer as we disembark,
recognition and American pride sprung across his face
“Military, Wives… you all are some of the strongest women there are.”
“Yes, we are.” I say.
It is easier to acquiesce into this role.
Here,
society can make sense, and feel safe
with my strength, my rage, my loss.
Any other name for this, and people freeze,
which is funny, and a little sad, because we wives of
Lost Men are everywhere.
It feels good, in this brief interlude,
to be someone else, if only for the length of time of the jet bridge.
Someone whose loss looks like a similar outfit to the one I have been sporting,
lately.
I push Elias up the jet bridge in his stroller.
The man smiles widely in satisfaction as we get to the gate opening
and nods as we embark onto the next
phase of our journey,
and I pretend,
with all of my might
that I am proud of my husband
for his choice to serve.
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