A letter

Friend,

You picked a tough row to hoe, and I'm sorry that this is what you have to go through. Today's going to be tough, but then again, so is the rest of the year. Know that I care about you and that I'm here to talk to. We may have been growing apart for a while, but that doesn't mean we've speciated that far away from who we used to be. The people we were when we could talk for hours on the phone about pretty much nothing. Obviously, some of our old subject matter is off limits.

I'm not jealous of what you're going through now, but those couple of months of domesticated bliss must have been great, and I felt a twinge of envy. I remember playing house with you, and you make a fine living companion.

You should know that when he comes back, and there's no reason to suspect he won't, he'll have a hard time. The adjustment to living with a woman is not easy for a guy returning from an environment such as that. He'll still love you, even when he wants to be alone, and even when he just wants to hang out with somebody, anybody who knows where he's been and it won't be you. You'll catch him leaving your room and your continent in middle of a conversation and you'll know he's off, away from you, away from TV and Denny's and the predatory used car lots (E1 and up financing!) and used, stripjoint harlots that sit right outside the gate. After an initial rush of joy, he'll hate the country he went to serve for a while.

It doesn't happen to all of them, but understand when he has to hide his eyes from you or pretend something's in them when the colors are paraded or a filmaker utilizes pandering, patriotic bullshit that catches him in places he has reserved for deep and personal tears.

You'll both be changed. If you stick to your goals, and enslave yourself to the treadmill the way you plan, you'll be frighteningly independent. On the other hand, that slavery will lead to your unearthed "sexiest mama." Your wording of those goals is adorable by the way. You'll be the kind of woman makes a man stop, throw back his head and howl; smooth, red lips and liquid hips, seems more than the law would allow, in the words of the Ray Wylie Hubbard song you liked so well.

Be true to him. If you are not, you may not lose him, but you will lose me as a friend. I would never talk to you again. I know you're not Her, but to me, when I'm being honest, all of the women with a man somewhere else, fighting, are Her, at least a little. You're stronger and don't have the same habits, but temptation will be there. Never from me. Never, ever, till this Earth is swallowed by the forces of an exploding sun, will I ever be a threat to that virtue. You already know that, but you might let him know when the twinges of jealousy that turn into pangs of fear grab him while he's so far away.

He's doing his job and his duty. And when he comes home hating October, just let it go.

I'm holding a little piece of myself here, away from the hate and the depression and the alcohol, for you. For what you need me to be. My phone's always open, and I'm strong enough for you to weigh me down. Come to me, tell me your anguish, lay your burden on me, I can take it. I'm a pretty stout individual.

I will be praying to a guy I don't believe in much for you. For you, I'll pretend to have faith.

I miss you, and when I'm drunk on cider at sunrise and don't need a teleological definition of the word, I love you. I'm here for you. And him. Tell him I'm buying the next round when he gets home. Dawg.