Military Life

Fresh Air

I feel the cool breeze meander in and out of the open kitchen window while I cut the stems of the hydrangeas I picked up while out. I both love and hate this time of year in North Carolina. The temperatures continuously rise and plunge between nearly eighties and high twenties but the days like today make me miss this place that I haven’t even left yet. Windows open, flowers resting, house breathing.

I breathe with it.

Fresh Air

We are in that oh-so-difficult-never-gets-easier limbo of wondering where we will go next, when we will go, IF we will go. This is my spouse’s twenty-first year as a soldier. I am nearing my twelfth year as a spouse. I have never been more rooted to a place. My children have never been more rooted to a home.

It’s hard to process that we are on the downslope of this crazy ride of military life. We yearn for it and mourn it in perfect unison.

I have made a home here. WE have made a home here.

In a handful of months boxes may begin to stack, walls will be patched, and sanded, and painted. Legos will be stored, hand drawn “art” will be rolled away, smudges from a learning-to-walk, pudgy boy will be erased, and my home will become someone else’s.

We will make a new one, a continuation of the many, a home to take with you.

Boxes will be unpacked, new smudges will appear as they always do, legos will be stepped on.


Windows will be opened. Flowers will be cut.

The house will breathe.

And so will we.

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