NAVY BOY
It was harder for him to leave this time.
He was home to see his friends, to visit his brothers and sister and to see his daughter. I was part of the package, sandwiched in between a quick kiss and maybe a light breakfast or late night supper. But that was o.k. with me, as long as I got to see him.He spent his days sleeping late, after partying and movie going and looking at everyone’s new digs. Most of the group he hung with now have apartments or have room mates in a house. They all have cars and jobs and or go to grad school. They have Sony T.V.’s, Play Stations, DVD players. Mostly, they all have debt. He has no debt, except for child support. He lives on a boat. They have freedom.
It was harder for him to leave this time.I told him to hold on to some of the good times; when they were young, heck we were all babies, and we all had a great time together, while scraping a living and growing up together, day by day. This son is not my oldest, but he seemed to be the most mature. My husband used to laugh and say this kid was born 40 years old. He seemed to know it too, and accepted that role in the family.
I told him to remember the times he would just bust a gut laughing over some silly poopie joke he & his brothers had made up, or sledding at Highland Park, on that hill near the outdoor shell. I would take turns with all the kids, because “…mom might fall off.” He still has that sense of humor, although the jokes are a little more vulgar than poopie jokes now, but funny just the same. He is a sailor and feels the need to live up to being “salty”.My fondest, yet most heart wrenching memory of him, was a hot summer day when he was eight years old. I had looked out the back window of our little house in the City, and saw him and his friends sitting around a circle of rocks, holding sticks punctuated with cotton balls at the end. When I asked them what the heck were they doing now, in the middle of summer sitting around a circle, go in the pool for God’s sake, he replied, “we’re pretending we’re at a camp fire, mom. You can’t light a fire in the back yard in the city, right?” Then he turned back to the circle and continued leading them in singing “camp fire” songs. I never told him that memory until now. He smiled and realized the impact of all that had never been said between us before.
I didn’t tell him about the memory of seeing the twin towers fall and wondering where he was on the ship, if the lunatics were going to start bombing ships, too, like the U.S.S. Cole. I didn’t tell him how I cried and thanked God on my knees when he finally called me with the usual “Hey turbo, how’s it going?” I hold on to the camp fire memory instead. It’s how I can let him go.But it was definitely harder for him to leave this time.
Not because he regretted his decision. Not because there might be a war. He’s not a coward.But because he now knows what he has signed up for is real. He is a defender of freedom. He is my defender and that of his friends and brothers & sister. He is protecting the future for his daughter.
It was definitely harder for him to leave this time, but I am so proud that he did. I gave my son back to Uncle Sam today. I hugged him tight when saying goodbye at the gate at the Buffalo Airport, and I didn’t cry this time. Maybe because he held on to me a little bit longer before he let go. I kissed him and reminded him of this awesome job he has chosen, this path his life has taken. I reminded him that God is with him always. That we all were.He is 21 years old. You can have him, Uncle Sam, for the time he will be gone. But I expect to get him back. He’s my boy.
My Navy Boy.
