Gold & Silver Forum - Pilfer-Resistant Bug-Out-Bag

His Duffle Bag

I watched as he packed for war. Duffle bags taken out of places I forgot we had, dusted off, laying in wait.

I watch him move silently but with purpose as he explores every inch of his mind, what would he need? What could he leave? His duffle bag now a trusted friend in which he would pack his life. As he moves, I begin to memorize every motion he makes. I memorize every inch of his face. I memorize our life before war.

His eyebrows pulled into the cover of concentration, small lines appear between them as he anticipates the road before him. His eyes full of concern for me, for himself, for the job ahead and the life he tries to pull together in a small dufflebag.

His eyes are the warmest color of brown that I have ever seen. Not quite dark, not light, but a tan color. The things he says with his eyes have always amazed me. The depth and warmth within them have lighted my way on many a dark night.

He sees me watching and abandons his world for a moment to smile reassuringly. With a smile , he brings our worlds together, smiles dancing together. His smile - not a full open smile but a smile of lips turned up at one side, pressed together as he attempts to comfort me - lingering there, the unspoken "I love you". I realize that his lips have brought me wisdom, laughter until my sides hurt, kisses on the head just because and passion unmatched by the sun rising in the sky. Even with lingering dread coming in on us like a thick fog, we find our way, together, to pretend that packing his duffle bag is a normal task, in our normal world.

As he moves forward, I watch his hands. Dry because he refuses to use lotion, nails he bites to this day, hard working hands. Hands that have tossed our granddaughter in the air - have disciplined and rewarded our daughter. Hands that have washed our dogs, washed our cars, washed my hair after surgery. Hands guided by a love of the intricate, have spent countless hours working on computers, both my Mothers and ours. Hands that have driven our car, and have molded into a perfect fit with my own. I've always loved his hands. They are now on a mission that I cannot be a part of - packing a duffle bag, packing his life, our life...into a world that is becoming increasingly not normal.

His forearm muscles move back and forth as he zips baggies. The same muscles I've watched when he is swinging a bat or a golf club, mowing the lawn, putting up a swing set, hanging Christmas lights and picking me up off the floor in a tight squeeze when he walks in from work. Baggies that contain the comforts of home and our precious life together, now wrapped in plastic - weatherproofed.

He must sense me watching him, for he pauses again, this time questioning me with the voice I've grown as accustomed to as I have my own. "What" he says? We stare at one another in a silence that speaks a lifetime of dialogue. Our lifetime. Our beginning, our private, intimate, near perfect life, focuses into brilliant color, no movement, no words - just life. Then. Now. Tomorrow.

His duffle bag, now packed, sits in the corner waiting. How could one bag - one green bag, represent so much of our lives? I smile at myself as I go between the mixed emotions of wanting to throw myself on the bag, begging it not to go and being so proud of the man who packed it. His moment is coming. The moment he leaves with the United Stated military. He is no longer "in the military" - overnight he has become a soldier in the United States Air Force.

A wise man once told me that you couldn't be brave if you are not afraid. It occurs to me, as it has time and time again, that this man, my husband, is truly wise. Although I see no fear, his bravery surrounds him like a shadow and so I know that his fear must be there, just under the surface.

The time to leave has come. It is time for him to go. Time for him to go to a place so barren, he has protected me from its name. As he confronts his fear, he guards me from mine. Is there anything braver than that, I wonder? We move together, walking in step, the duffle bag swinging between us, as he struggles to carry the life he has packed.

Perhaps one would think that a life moment such as this would carry great expectation. I found instead such a mixture of emotional agony and such great pride. We arrive at the moment we've both denied.

He moves, so handsome in a uniform of tan and brown. He pulls his hat down to shield his eyes from the sun or perhaps to shield his eyes from my own. We lock together in a moment that has now become the strength on which we will depend for an undetermined amount of time. He leans to pick up his duffle bag. He life must be full, I think, as he now stances lopsided from the weight of his duffle bag.

As he moves away, he stops for a shining second, flashing his beautiful eyes, his fantastic smile, as his lips form the word "good-bye". The last thing I see, is my husband, fading down the walk, marching off to war, carrying our life, in his duffle bag.

by Cynthia