My Soldier

My soldier
That's what they called him
If you have any questions, "ask your soldier"
If you need to get a hold of "your soldier" here's how to do it.

In my mind, I know I am unlike most of the family in the room, because, unlike them, my soldier doesn't pay my bills or provide my medical insurance.
I feel somewhat unworthy of my sadness because I only have to explain to my children why their uncle won't be around for a year.

Others have to tell their kids about a daddy who will be missing every day and every night.

I want to commit to keeping in touch and making sure my soldier knows he is loved. As often as I can. But I don't have to keep a marriage alive.

My soldier isn't my son, and he isn't my husband. I keep controlling my tears because I think that mine are less warranted than someone who has a soldier who runs their home and their heart.
And I can't imagine how those family members feel, because of how sad I feel about my soldier going away.

But even so. He is my soldier. He's the soldier that is mine. He's the one that I'll write to, and think about, and worry for.

He probably wishes I wouldn't, but I'll even pray for his safety.

Often. Daily. Hourly, even.
I need my soldier to come home, to stay safe. To remain unharmed.
For me. For my mom. For Heather. For Addie. For Lily. For Bryson.

I need him to come home and keep being part of my family. For most of my life, he's been half of the two people who are my family.
There's something I haven't told my soldier, and I'm sorry, even ashamed of that. I'm proud of you. I am. I'm really proud of my soldier.

Because he is a good man, and a good brother, and a good son, and a good uncle. And a good soldier. If you get to call him your soldier, too, you know how lucky you are.


And even when I was in a sea of soldiers last week, and I couldn't see his face. I knew which was one he was.

Because, He is my soldier.