the difference between a red dress and a black dress

Fifteen days ago I stood at Baltimore Washington International Airport staring at a door.  Waiting for it to open.  Desperate for the first glimpse of my husband after he cleared customs.

It was a day we had waited for a long time.

A day on the calendar he had painstakingly stared at for hours during the previous year.

A day filled with joy.

And a day where Philip and I were acutely aware that grief has been woven to the fabric of our lives.

I stood there, thrilled, excited, nervous, relieved.  But I stood there PAINFULLY AWARE that not everyone gets to welcome her husband back from combat in a red dress.  Sometimes you welcome your spouse home from war wearing a black one.

And that was/is/continues to be overwhelming.

I watched the door open and close about 100 times before Philip came through (he was at the back of the plane).  And each time my heart skipped a beat (okay, actually, by about the 51st time I realized it was going to be awhile. . .).  And while I was thinking about and feeling a lot of things, there were three people on my mind:  Philip. Dave. Dana.

Philip was crossing the threshold of of door at the airport, standing firmly on American soil once again, but Dave was not.

I was moments away from the safety and security of Philip's embrace, but Dave will never hold Dana again.

And that kills me.  And it's not fair.  And it doesn't make sense.  And it makes me felt guilty.  And it makes me feel nauseous.  And I don't get it.  And it makes me want to scream.  And it still makes me cry.

So yeah. . . I stood there holding that. . .  Not "What is the first place we are going to go out for a nice dinner tonight?  What is the first vacation we are going to go on?"  Instead "I am very very very humbled to be standing here right now.  I do not take this for granted.  Homecomings are not guaranteed.  This day could have easily not happened.  And for far too many people it doesn't."

But these moments. . .

When you see the person you love more than anything in the world. . .

Well. . . there simply are no words. . .

I know I mentioned in my first post after Philip returned that something that was tremendously helpful/powerful that first 24 hours was the time that Philip and I had to talk through what we were processing about all that the homecoming had brought up for each of us about Dave/Dana.  It was such a comfort to not be alone in how very bittersweet the day was when you are surrounded by expectations from everyone that it is simply this 100% magical day of jubilation and relief and "phew that's over."

Truthfully, I actually get somewhat irritated with that kind of sentiment.

And I guess some of that is because Philip's return home still didn't mark the home stretch of separation for us, so the "we're done with the hard part!" message doesn't fit with my feelings/experience right now.

But it's much more than that. . .

It grates against me this notion that somehow I can naively go back to my life and not have to think about very stark realities now that the Taliban isn't trying to kill my husband every day.

I don't work that way.

Because my husband is home, temporarily, but we are still a country at war.  So I don't get to just go back to my laundry list of first-world problems.  Or maybe I just choose not to?   I don' t know.

But people are dying.

Wives are grieving.

The pain and wreckage of this war isn't over.

I am unbelievably grateful that I get to wake up next to my husband on a more regular basis now, but it is never far from my awareness that there is a bigger picture.  [And the bigger picture is stark.]

But getting to wake up next to Philip doesn't dull the heartache and searing pain I feel about the aforementioned facts.

And sometimes it makes my feelings about them a whole lot more complex.