Writing in Cadence

Where will you be when you say goodbye to someone? What will the atmosphere be like? Will there be laughing; will there be crying; will the goodbye be temporary or permanent? Will the person even see it coming? I did, on a cold December afternoon in 2008 just before the Christmas holiday; my mother didn’t. My guard unit had been activated for a combat tour to Iraq at the beginning of the month, and this would be my first time leaving the country. I had just turned twenty-one, and the only thing I wanted to do was see the world; if that meant the risk of a war zone, so be it. I would have gotten on the plane without a word were it not for my chaplain insisting on allowing the woman who gave me life one final memory before the uncertainty of death loomed over us all. I agreed on the condition that my chaplain chaperone the farewell, and we set a thirty-minute timetable to ease the tension of the visit; we would plan on thirty minutes, and if things were going well, we would go for another thirty. If the visit went poorly, we would leave. The timer began the minute I knocked on the door.

0 minutes

We arrived at a house I had never been to before. It was smaller and further out of town than my mother’s previous home. The white, wooden structure with the “across the railroad tracks” in the directions was a stark contrast to the suburban neighborhood image I remembered arriving at after coming back from basic training. This was not the two-story home in a named community that I recalled my mother being so proud of. I thought about the move she and her husband had made from the run-down rental we had stayed in through my high school years into the house that they had worked so hard to obtain for themselves. I had been kicked out of that big house at nineteen years old, with only a week to get my affairs in order, in a decision they deemed “good parenting” to teach me to live on my own. Walking up to the door of this unfamiliar place, a year and a half later, on a cold December afternoon, made me wonder if I hadn’t dodged a bullet in whatever was going on in their lives now. As my thoughts wandered to my upcoming deployment, I couldn’t help but pray that I dodged more. I knocked on the door and my mother answered.

1 minute

I wasn’t sure what I expected when the door opened. As my mother appeared, I was already regretting the decision to come here. This was, after all, the mark of an end. Either the estranged relationship I had with her was going to find some sort of reconciliation within the next twenty-nine minutes, or I would walk out the same door I was about to enter and leave everything I felt for her inside the home I was never a part of. My mother, my chaplain, and I moved from the back door entrance to the living room at the front of the house where we assumed seats across from each other in a hesitant manner; my chaplain and I found seating on a worn leather couch while my mother sat in a recliner to my left. The room was lit, but dark, and there was a familiar, lived-in clutter that I recognized from the time I lived with my family. I offered forth a small, wrapped gift I had brought with me, and breathed for the first time.

3 minutes

My mother opened her present, an immemorable item that reflected a relationship that had been left by the wayside since birth, said thank you for the thought, and set it down. Friendly banter began, with my chaplain joining in. My mother knew her, so they took a moment to catch up. I began to feel a sense of relief in the experience, because the familiarity that they shared was a better ice breaker than the almost-awkward fact that I was my mother’s son. I had known my chaplain for longer than either of us had been serving, and our relationship was all due to the woman that sat across from both of us. While I was still in high school, I began to act out against the problems I faced at home: the physical abuse, being locked out of the house at night and forced to sleep on the porch, and the constant reminder that nothing I did would meet her expectations. A night in jail led to my chaplain, then simply a kind-hearted civilian, into stepping in to give me the guidance I wasn’t receiving at home. I should have been disappointed at the relief I saw in my mother to have her child be someone else’s problem, but even as we sat for this Christmas visit, I could see no shame in her eyes as she discussed my progress with the woman who helped raise me. But, with my chaplain’s input, the conversation loosened up, and I began to open a bit about where I had been for the last year. I still made a quick glance at my watch.

8 minutes

The subject of the deployment finally came up. Nobody in the room had gone through this experience before, so the conversation tiptoed around the uncertainty of death and focused more on the positives of the journey to come: the surge of the war was coming to a lull, and I wasn’t going through this on my own. My chaplain promised to keep an eye on me, and I knew that she would. I looked over to my mentor, whose small frame always hid the strong leader underneath, and smiled for the first time of the visit. Regardless of the outcome of this moment, there was still the impending deployment looming over us. Somehow, I knew I had nothing to fear as long as she was there to guide me.

15 minutes

My mother changed gears on the conversation and reminds me that this house is not the house I last saw her at. I was already aware of her husband’s DUI that cost him his job and both of them their higher tax bracket lifestyle. Still, I saw the proffered opening and asked how life was for the two of them. I noted his absence, and she promptly informed me that her marriage was on the rocks. She unveiled things I was already aware of through mutual contacts, and other bits of information that depicted the fallout that had been slowly occurring since my own departure from the family. I wanted to feel sorry for her. I glanced at my watch again.

22 minutes

I was twenty-one, staring down the barrel of a combat tour, as well as my first trip out of the country, and trying to squeeze a lifetime of pain and regret into thirty minutes of redemption. It seemed my mother had forgotten that her first-born child was heading off to war and was, instead, choosing to take the time to remind two soldiers in front of her that their issues paled in comparison to her own. I was watching the clock tick away and wondered if my mother realized how fleeting time could be. I realized that this was it. My mother was showing me who she was, the same as she always had. Twenty-one years of second chances were ending, and I was finally seeing my mother through adult eyes. All I could do now was give her what she wanted in the time that we had left together, so I acknowledged her pain and wished the best for her. As I looked across the room at my mother, I wondered when she would find happiness in her life. I looked down at my wrist for the final time.

30 minutes

I glanced at my chaplain to catch her eye, and she knew that time had run out. She took the lead in finding the opening for our departure, and we rose to say our goodbyes. I hugged my mother and thanked her for the visit. The reality of the farewell began to set in, and her tone was softer than I remembered it being in years. It was a nice reminder that the woman in front of me was still my mom, and that, despite all the painful memories, she still loved me in her own way. I held onto that sentiment as we walked out the door. I would see my mother once more for a brief unit farewell where my attendance was mandatory. Nothing of importance was shared that day between the two of us. I was already gone the moment I said bye on the steps of that small, white house.