your mind, unless you’ve been a soldier
outside the wire in a country where
no one native is really your friend,
and anyone might be your enemy.
You don’t know till you’re ducking
bullets. The only person you dare rely
on is the buddy who looks a lot like
you—too young for this, leaking bravado,
and wearing the same uniform.
Even people who love soldiers—
people like me—can only know these
things tangentially, and not so much
because of what our beloveds tell us
as what they’ll never be able to.
LOVING ANY SOLDIER
Is extremely hard. Loving a Marine
who’s an aggressive frontline marksman
is almost impossible, especially when
he’s deployed. That’s not now. Currently,
Cole is on base in Kaneohe, awaiting
orders. The good thing about that is
I get to talk to him pretty much every
day. The bad thing is, we both know
he’ll go back to the Middle East as soon
as some Pentagon strategist decides
the time is right, again. Cole’s battalion
has already deployed twice to Iraq
and once to Afghanistan. Draw-down
be damned, Helmand Province and beyond
looks likely for his fourth go-round.
You’d think it would get easier. But ask
me, three scratch-free homecomings
make another less likely in the future.
OF COURSE, IF YOU ASK
Me about falling in love
with a guy in the military,
I’d tell you to about-face
and double-time toward
a decent, sensible civilian.
Someone with a fat bank
account and solid future,
built on dreams entirely
his own. I’d advise you
to detour widely around
any man who prefers fatigues
to a well-worn pair of jeans;
whose romantic getaways
are defined by three-day
leaves; who, at age twenty-
six has drunk more liquor
than most people manage
in a lifetime. He and his
fellow grunts would claim
it’s just for fun. A way to let
their hair down, if they had
much hair to speak of. But
those they leave behind,
devoted shadows, understand
that each booze-soaked
night is a short-lived
retrieve from uncertain
tomorrows, unspeakable
yesterdays. Service. Sacrifice.
The problem with that being,
everyone attached to those
soldiers must sacrifice, too.
So, as some Afghani warlord
might say, put that in your
pipe and smoke it. Okay, that
was actually my grandpa’s saying.
But it works, and what I mean
is, think long and hard before
offering your heart to someone
who can only accept it part-time.
TOO LATE FOR ME
I didn’t go looking for some dude
with crewed yellow hair and piercing
golden eyes. It just happened.
So here I am, in the second year
of my MSW program at San Diego
State, while he brushes up his sniper
skills twenty-six hundred miles away.
Some people consider Hawaii paradise,
an odd place for a Marine base. Except,
if you consider war in the Pacific Theater.
Except, why not? I’m elbow-deep in
Chaucer when his call, expected, comes.
Hey, babe. His voice is a slow burn,
melting all hint of chill inside me.
Word came down today. Two weeks.
How fast can you get here? I need
serious Ash time. And, I’ve got a surprise
for you. Something . . . really special.
“Sounds intriguing. No hints?”
He refuses and I consider what
it will take to reach him. “I’ll look
into flights and let you know. Probably
next weekend.” It will be a pricey ticket.
But I have no choice. Cole Gleason is my heart.
WE TALK FOR AN HOUR
About nothing, really, at all.
Finally, we exchange love-
soaked good-byes and I do my best
to go back to Chaucer. I’ve got
a paper due on Friday. But it’s hard
to concentrate. The couple next door
is having one of their regular
shouting matches, and the thin walls
of this apartment do little to dampen
the noise. Every time they go off
on each other, it plunges me straight
back into my childhood. My parents
argued regularly, in clear earshot
of the neighbors or their friends
or even at family gatherings. And
they always made up the same
way, so everyone could hear, taking
special care to let my little brother,
Troy, and me understand that
no matter how much they had grown
to dislike each other, that paper
they signed in front of the priest
was a forever contract and meant
more than personal happiness.
Their own brand of sacrifice.
I grew up equating public displays
of affection with private problems
and, when I found out about Dad’s
affairs, with covert actions. Hmm.
Maybe that’s why I’m so attracted
to someone who specializes in
ferreting out the truth. Ha, and
maybe my parents don’t like him
for the same reason. Mom claims
it’s because anyone who signs up
to kill innocent people right along
with the bad guys must be either
brainwashed or brain-dead.
Of course, she has a personal
relationship with the military
through her father, a Viet Nam vet
who came home irreparably damaged.
I NEVER MET HIM
Nor my grandmother. Both died when
Mom was eleven. She was raised
by her dad’s mother, “crazy Grandma
Gen,” as she calls her. I don’t know if
Genevieve was really crazy, or if that’s just
how she seemed to Mom. But I do think
losing both parents in the same accident
plowed deep into Mom’s psyche. To a stranger,
she’d seem standoffish. To her friends,
a challenge to know. To Troy and me,
she is a river of devotion beneath a thick
veneer of ice. To Dad . . . I’m not sure.
Sometimes, when she giggles at one
of his ridiculous jokes, or when he looks
at her in a certain way, I see a ghost
of what they once meant to each other.
What I do know is when I truly need support,
she always comes through, at least once
we make it past her counseling sessions.
But, hey. She’s my mother. It’s her job
to assail me with advice. As her daughter,
it’s my prerogative to take it or leave it.
When it comes to Cole, I mostly ignore
what she has to say, and completely shun
Dad’s sage wisdom—I don’t understand
why you want to commit to s
omeone
whose entire life is following orders.
Dad doesn’t care much for rules, except
for the ones he makes. He’s brilliant,
but hated school, and could never
have worked for someone else. He never
had to. In college, he became obsessed
with technology, way down to nano
level. His crazy scientist inventions
have kept us living well, especially out
in the country, a very long commute
to the Silicon Valley. Dad is impatient
with conventions, or silly things like
my longstanding desire to teach.
Stupid is actually what he called it.
Too little pay, and even less respect.
My liberal arts BA, according to Dad,
was, A serious squander of time and
money. I figured it gave me options.
Dad says it just proves I’m wishy-washy,
and maybe he’s right. I chose an MSW
over an MFA. Social work seemed like
the right direction at the time. But writing
and teaching call to me, too. Which explains
why I’m taking poetry as an elective.
“Creative expression as therapy” was
the explanation I gave to my advisor.
I have, in fact, encouraged the veterans
I’ve worked with at the VA Hospital
to write as a means of sorting through
the scrambled thoughts inside their heads.
A few showed me their ramblings. I could
fix their grammar. But not their memories.
STILL, TO A POINT
The writing seemed cathartic.
I might use that as my thesis,
if I get that far next year. I went
for a three-year program, hoping
to give myself a little breathing
room. I talked Dad into paying
for it, so I guess it’s fair he’s a bit
pissy, especially because he also
agreed to let me quit my part-time job.
I loved working at the preschool, but
it didn’t pay very well, and it crowded
my days. And a couple of incidents
made me question why some people
have children. A certain mother made
me a little crazy. Jacked up my stress
factor, not to mention blood pressure.
Parents like her are why the world
needs social workers. Poor, little Soleil
deserves better. Every kid does. Dad
says I can’t change the world. Maybe
not. But I’m damn sure going to try.
IN THE MEANTIME
I suck it up, put distraction away,
and try to jump into writing my paper.
I kind of love most poetry, though
I do prefer writing it to dissecting
some of it, especially Chaucer. He is not,
as the English (Old, new, or anywhere
in between) might say, my cup of Earl
Grey. Still, I manage almost three pages
on his contributions to the Oxford English
Dictionary when my cell signals
a new text message. Happy for
the interruption, I go ahead and
investigate, discover it’s from Darian.
HEY, GIRL. A BUNCH OF US ARE GOING
OUT ON SATURDAY NIGHT. WANT TO
COME WITH? Some best friend.
Zero communication for weeks at a time,
then she invites me out with a “bunch”
of her new pals. Military wives, none
of whom I know. The ones she hangs
out with. Works out with. Goes out
with, more often, obviously, than
she does with me anymore. I suppose
I should be grateful she thought about
me at all. Part of me is. And part
of me wishes I had a valid excuse
to say no. But I really don’t, and how
would saying no make me a better
friend than she’s been to me lately?
Anyway, I could use a few hours away
from here. Out of this apartment,
and into the land of drunk living.
I text back: SOUNDS FUN, BUT I HAVE
TO BE CAREFUL OF MY CASH. LOOKS LIKE
I’M FLYING TO HAWAII NEXT WEEK.
She, of course, knows why. Which reminds
me: HOW’S SPENCE? Her husband,
and Cole’s good buddy, has been
in country for several months. Behind
the wire, at some uber-protected
Afghanistan airfield—wherever they
keep the helicopters that need a little
tweaking. Spencer is a self-proclaimed
master copter mechanic. Darian’s answer
is slow to come. In fact, I’m just
about ready to believe she has put
away her phone when: OKAY, I GUESS.
WE HAVEN’T TALKED IN A FEW DAYS.
STRANGE
Spencer should have fairly easy access
to a computer, if not a phone. E-mails
and even Facebook are rarely prohibited
when a soldier is safely behind the wire.
Communication, the brass believe,
is the key to harmonious long-distance
relationships. You’re not supposed
to give away any really important
information, of course. Nothing
the enemy could use to his advantage.
But discussing family or work or school
(on this end) and what to put into care
packages (on the other) are encouraged.
Connection to home and loved ones
helps keep a warrior grounded in
a reality that doesn’t revolve around
war. Except when the current battle
happens to involve someone at home.
When I ask Darian what’s up with Spence
and her, she responds: WE HAD A FIGHT
LAST TIME WE TALKED. SAME OLD BULLSHIT.
MEANING IMAGINED CHEATING
Wish I could jump straight to her defense.
But there’s a lot I don’t know about her
at this point. And a lot more that I suspect
myself. Once, I could have come right out
and asked her if she was sleeping around.
Darian and I have been best friends since
the fourth grade. We used to tell each other
everything—confessed big secrets and little
lies. San Diego State was a shared dream,
mostly because, growing up in Lodi, the idea
of moving south and living near the ocean
seemed akin to heaven. We were stem-to-stern
California girls. Funny we fell in love with
heartland guys. Spencer is a corn-fed Kansan.
And Cole’s a Wyoming boy. Both were raised
gun-toting, critter-hunting, Fox News–loving patriots.
They met in basic training at Camp Pendleton,
became instant friends. We connected with them soon after.
Rewind
JANUARY 2007
Darian and I were roomies then,
sharing an off-campus apartment.
She grumbled a lot about school.
About feeling shackled. About men—
the ones she’d been dumped by,
the ones she couldn’t seem to find.
One Friday she seemed ready to lose
it, so I suggested a night of drunken
revelry. “Who knows?” I prodded.
“Maybe you’ll find Mr. Wonderful.”
We chose an Oceanside hotspot, too busy
for the bartender to give our fake IDs more
than a quick glance. We ordered margaritas,
/>
found two seats at a table not too close to
the speakers pounding base-infused music.
I didn’t notice Cole and Spencer walk
in. But Darian did. She nudged me.
Hard. Check it out. Hot Marines.
Military issue was not my type,
at least I didn’t think so then. I did
have to admit, however, that whatever
hoops they’d been jumping through
had left them buff and bronzed.
Which one do you want? she asked,
as if hooking up with them was in
the bag. I kind of like the dark one.
Spencer swaggered. That’s the only
word I can think of to describe the way
he moved. “Cock-sure,” my grandpa
would have called it. Definitely more
Darian’s overhyped style than mine.
Cole, I wasn’t sure about. He carried
himself straight up and down, stiff
as a log. He looked deadly serious,
until he smiled, revealing a hint
of something soft—almost childlike—
beneath his tough infantryman veneer.
Some things are meant to be, it seems.
I mean, we weren’t the only women
in the club. There were way too many
vampires—girls hoping to hook up
with a military sugar daddy. Someone
whose paycheck would see them
through when he was sent away.
I didn’t know about them then,
but it didn’t take long. That night,
they prepared to swoop in on Cole
and Spence. Except, there was Darian.
I’VE NEVER BEEN MUCH OF A FLIRT
Darian, though, is flirt enough for
two. Not to mention, bold enough
to move in before the vampires
could reconnoiter. I’ll be right back.
She walked straight up to the bar,
insinuated herself between Spencer
and Cole, ordered drinks, even
though the ones we had were barely
half gone. Then she turned and
looked Spencer square in the eye.
My friend and I want to thank you
for your service. Next round’s on us.
It wasn’t a question, and one minute
later, I found myself thigh to thigh
next to this quiet guy with intense
topaz eyes. It wasn’t love at first sight
or touch or whatever. If it had just
been the two of us there, he would
have been vampire bait. But our
BFFs hit it off immediately. I was more