I guess.
111.
Dear Dad,
Mom misses you. She’s still super sad about Aunt Rose.
She talks on the phone a ton to Uncle Todd, Grandma
and Grandpa, and Gram & Gramps.
They all miss you, too!
In Art, I’m creating a monochromatic painting.
Mono means one, as in one main color.
When it’s done, I can send it to you.
Come home soon.
Your monodaughter,
Abbey
112.
I doodle on the corner of the letter I’ve written.
Did it actually happen?
Did buildings really fall?
Or was it just a scene
from a movie I once saw?
Without witnessing something firsthand,
it’s hard to believe in it after a while—
the way it’s hard to believe that someone you know
is no longer living, breathing,
and being.
But if buildings as grand as those
can just vanish…it must be so.
Sometimes, our life with Aunt Rose
feels imagined
like I never really knew her at all.
I try to remember her easy laugh,
her singing voice,
picture her face—
or maybe the face I recall
is her photo face from the flyer we made.
I try to bring tears to my eyes,
but I can’t anymore.
Then there’s Dad
in Afghanistan.
It’s hard to envision him there.
Maybe that tree falling saying is true.
If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it,
does it make a sound?
Although I might revise it:
If your father gets killed in a war and he’s half a map from you,
would you believe that he’s gone?
I don’t know what
to believe in anymore.
113.
A few days ago, my mom and I
stopped at a grocery store near the base,
and all the way down a bright aisle,
way down near the cereal,
we thought we saw Dad, but he
was just some other kid’s military dad.
114.
He’s left us before,
for many months at a time,
but he’s never been this far away,
or maybe I was too young to know.
The house has grown quiet
without him, without his fatherly voice,
his boots by the door, his steady presence
moving through the house, the creaks
and groans and closings of doors
that are distinctly his. Until now,
I’ve never realized how each of us
makes our own unique sounds doing the same things—
like washing our hands or shutting a drawer.
His clothes hang motionless in his closet.
His pillow is unmoved.
His books lie dusty and unread by the bed.
His coffee cup is always clean
and in its place in the cabinet.
His aftershave is full, full, full—
so just once,
I dab it on my neck.
I didn’t realize I would miss him like this.
Maybe it’s because Mom isn’t actually HERE.
She’s just putting on clothes each day,
pretending.
She hasn’t been anywhere really
since Aunt Rose.
115.
Camille’s family
hangs a hand-painted flag
of peace signs and doves
across their front door:
MAKE LOVE NOT WAR.
I cringe at the words, stare
dumbly at the doorbell
forever and a day, deciding
if Dad stands for one
more than the other.
And if they’re against the war,
does that make them against
Dad? Against me?
Can you support one
but not the other?
But what I really can’t figure
is if I’m not welcome
at Camille’s house
anymore.
116.
The mailbox sits cold and empty,
bored and unfriendly.
Dad said it would take a while
for his platoon to get set up,
for him to be able to correspond.
Mom checks the mail
even more often than I do.
From two blocks away,
the mailman sees us coming
and nods his official nod
and looks the other way.
We’re not upset with him.
117.
Jacob must have forgiven me
for snapping at him that day on the bus
because he and Camille slip happy notes
into my locker and try to crack me up
by dancing and goofing off in the halls.
I laugh, despite myself, and forget—
for a few moments—about the war.
118.
Then finally—
A letter!
A letter from Dad arrives!
119.
The battered envelope
smells of faraway places
and contains a page for me
and a page for Mom.
She holds hers close all day
and falls asleep with it—
Dad’s words
beneath her pillow.