[mousepoet]: 243.Contest entries-prose.FTLoL-It Moves

Very unpolished. But I haven't had much time lately.

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This isn’t what I expected. All this time, I thought that there would be shared tears or something, kissing in the early morning, touching in the afternoon, and love in the middle of the night. But the moon’s gone down, like spoiled milk in the window, and the day was too busy for all that, and I look around the room and see that my world is grinding to halt. He’s in bed, asleep, with his breath all whispery, like it always is when he had a cold. And I’m awake, sitting by the window.

I was eighteen. Damn, I was young. He was in my senior class and quietly handsome. So I took art with him to fill my fine arts credits, and he made me think, and I made him laugh. I swore I didn’t like him, I promised my friends he wasn’t anything to me. But something in me moved when he looked at me. After such a short time of knowing each other, we could just give each other a glance, and nothing needed to be said. And then he worked up the courage to tell me, in no uncertain terms, that he was fairly certain he was in love. And I couldn’t do anything but stammer and smile, and finally, kiss him. And that was that.

And I wasn’t so innocent, as it turned out, and he wasn’t so perfect, so we fit even better. And love is love is love is love, in a laundry basket or in a look, in a touch or in art class. We were inseparable. We were connected. We were a poem of the most clichéd kind. Oh, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. And then we were truly one, truly connected, after graduation was over and all our caps were tossed.

But he comes from a military family, and he’s a good son, and he feels these things like Duty and Honor and Responsibility. So he married me and joined up and brought me with him. For a while it was good. Money’s tight, but it always has been. So, what else is new?

And then, like a knife (but more like a bullet) this whole mess started, and it’s all oil and blood in bathtub, sand in the bedroom, missiles in the trash. He was on his knees by the toilet as soon as he got the news. I was like a rock in the living room.

I would follow him anywhere, you see. I would go there if I could.

But I can’t.

So I’m awake and by the window, waiting for something to whisper in my ear, tell me the answer. To tell me of something worth fighting for. Something worth him fighting for. Something worth leaving me alone in a cramped apartment with a couch, a table, three chairs, a TV, and our bed. My bed. There are dirty dishes in the sink and dust on the countertops. There is hair in the carpet and mildew in one corner. And I don’t care at all. I’m at the window and I know that military wives are supposed to be firm and strong and unchanging. You can cry at their funeral. That’s it. Not much wiggle room for grief.

But I look at him now, and something moves in me. And, oh, dear God, it’s not just emotion. How many months? I can count in the morning. But the clock, it is morning. There’s spoiled milk in my window. I’m going to be sick. It moves. He’s going, going, gone. Today’s the big day, boys. Duty, Honor, and Responsibility. Oil, blood, and sand. I should wake him up and have him feel it move. Milk. Oil. And no blood for three months.

Love, I’m on my knees now by the toilet now. You’re like a rock in bed. Can you hear me? I’m crying for us. It’s not even your funeral. Don’t tell. But there is more life in me now than ever before, and you will be gone to see it. So don’t mind my red eyes when you wake up later. Don’t look at my waistline. You’ll find out in a few months anyway. I want you to think you're only leaving me.

So for now, let’s pretend it’s just one saying goodbye to one.