On remembering

I hate when I miss a call from him.

There isn't much to say really -- we talk about what he's eating, how he's sleeping and whether he's flying. Then I relay information about what the kids are up to, whether the cable guy came and how hard it is here without him.

That's all, but it's our lifeline to each other while he's so far away.

Last night, I missed a call.

Henry was having an especially hard time falling asleep, so I rocked him well past 8:30 and couldn't hear the ringer over the fan in the nursery.

I'm not sure what we would have talked about, probably the food, the weather or football.

I thought back to the conversation we'd had two days before -- our first and longest conversation since he left a week ago. I had asked him if he felt safe there. There was a hesitation and he said: "I feel safe. But, it's different."

In so many ways, it's different now.

I remember where I was that day 10 years ago.

I was a newlywed and we were stationed in Corpus Christi for the middle months of flight school. I had slept in after a late shift at the coffee shop where I worked and was surprised when Nick came through the front door mid-morning in his flight suit.

"Aren't you working today?" I asked.

And he said: "Haven't you seen what happened?"

For the rest of the day we sat on stationary bikes in our apartment complex's fitness room, watching our only source of cable TV coverage of the horror.

Once we pried ourselves from the news and started the grieving process, I began to realize things would be different. For our country. For our military. For us.

Today, on the 10th anniversary of 9/11, the kids and I woke to sunshine and tried out a new church. I settled the kids in their Sunday school classrooms and took Henry with me to the sanctuary. I entertained Henry with items from my purse and clung to the pastor's message about the importance of grief and not forgetting.

I cried a little. A lot of people did.

The pastor spoke of the differences in our own community post-9/11.

He mentioned the people who have loved ones overseas -- the ones who listen to the news each day on eggshells, worried about bad news that might affect them personally.

Last night, I missed a phone call and today I miss my husband. But he's only gone for a month and he's not doing a job that's particularly dangerous. We're some of the lucky ones.

When I saw on the news that a bomb had injured American soldiers at a NATO base in Kabul today, my heart pounded and I scanned for any words in the AP feed that indicated that it might be an air base.

Since I hadn't heard anything, I trusted every thing was OK.

Ten years ago I didn't think about three babies, five moves and a handful of deployments. But here we are.

This afternoon there's a poison ivy bush that needs uprooting, chrysanthemums that need re-potting and football games to watch.

We'll enjoy the sun and the sweat from a day of work and play, but I'm turning my ringer up, because I'd hate to miss another call, especially today.