Inevitable hero.

The last phone call was fun.  We laughed about things, I was on a ‘high’.  I giggled and he seemed to like the nonchalance of the occasion.  We smiled together and agreed to talk on Friday.  Seven weeks passed.  Seven Fridays came and went. The phone rang lots.  I accumulated more emails than I care to think about.  The post box jangled nearly every day, although not Sundays.  Everything is quiet on a Sunday.  It was never him.  The phone I forgave silently everyday, wished away with excuses. The mail I couldn’t.  It had been promised.  The promised next letter, the next clue in a row, the closeness you get from being able to read and re-read a letter.  It’s a conversation you can have more than once, at your whim.  Like normal people.

It’s hard to block the anger or forget the frustration.  ‘It must be so hard,’ is the favourite adage of most people.  It is hard but it’s not hard missing them.  It’s hard dealing with normality when it’s not normal, it’s hard not being allowed to be pissed off or rant and rave.  It’s hard to have conditions on your emotions simply because of where they are and what uniform they wear.  It’s hard to say, ‘you know what, he’s actually a shit’.  Because people want to believe he’s a hero.  In my eyes he’s only a hero if he can see my pain, anguish and battle.  But he doesn’t.  I’m not allowed to say that, so shhhh, everything’s fine and I just can’t wait to get my soldier back…

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