D-Day

It's cold this morning, and I jump into my car and turn on the heat. The heavy lids of night are just opening to reveal the watery, unsure light of the sun. I own the road, so the drive to the airport doesn't take any time at all. I am walking through the short term parking lot at just after 5 a.m. Airports are like a time warp. There's no way anyone should be awake at that time in the morning when even the birds haven't yet started singing, but as the sliding doors shhhh open, people are walking around, checking bags and chatting on cell phones. I don't see Damien, so I go upstairs and get a paper. The lighting is terrible; florescence surrounds me and I know that between my fear and getting up at 4 a.m., I must look pallid, perhaps even a little green. It occurs to me that airports are purposely set up to look the same everywhere to lull one into a false sense of security. I feel that the familiar foreignness is made to shock one into dull submission, like playing Mozart in a slaughterhouse, so no one freaks out and everything stays orderly. I feel really fucking disordered in the back of my mind, but the strangeness of the airport that I've been in dozens of times mixed with my concentration on the lead story in the newspaper keeps me quiet.

There he is. He's carrying a four-foot long box. There could be a bassoon or a javelin in there. I know it contains an M-16. I smile and wave and he goes to the check-in counter. He's got his hooded sweatshirt on, and I know which pair of boxers he's wearing beause I helped him pack last night, watched as he set aside his clothes for that morning's plane ride.

His parents show up when he's checking in and so do some of the guys from his station. I cling to my newspaper and smile as the round of introductions commence. Guys shake my hand and I squeeze hard.

All of a sudden, he's done at the counter and is at my side, saying goodbye to the guys. His parents and I follow him up the escalator to the security gate. There is a tissue in my pocket that I know I'll use, and it occurs to me that it's one of those fancy lotion-infused tissues, and those have piss-poor absorbency.

Damien is not messing around. He hugs and kisses me, tells me he loves me. I watch him hug his parents. I am the only one crying. My eyes leak all over the place, and I rub the damn useless tissue under my eyes and try to set my mind. I make a lame joke about checking his "weapon." He's walking away, handing the TSA security guard the baggie full of travel-sized toiletries and stripping off his shoes and sweatshirt. Then he's through. He waves. His mother gives me an awkward hug. His dad doesn't know what to make of me. They leave, and I sit.

I call him on his cell phone to tell him I'm staying until the plane leaves. We have minor conversation. I can't see him, which is probably good since I'm so fucking weak, so messed up about all of this. I want something. A grand gesture, perhaps; something that shows me how much he loves me, that he understands how sad this is that we're being tested this way so early in our relationship. I want him to say something profound, something I can run through my brain, drink like a cool glass of water, anything that will flush the bitter taste that has been squeezing the back of my throat for too long now.

Before he boards the plane, I see him. He waves. And then he is gone.