I would give all the stars in the universe to be standing there with the other military families as Clay returns from Iraq; as he steps off that bus from the airport and slowly walks with all his gear toward the longing and eager embraces waiting for everyone-else-but-him.
I could go too, I suppose. Physically, I could go. I could hang out with other family and friends if I could somehow get on base. But it would be too much to ask for me not to sprint over to him the moment I see him, not to grip him tightly until I stopped shaking, not to hold his face in my hands and trace his tears with my fingertips.
At that one moment in time I couldn’t pretend to be anyone other than his husband, or that he is someone other than the one I love so deeply – down to the very depths of my soul.
But none of that will matter once he’s returned. None of that will matter when I can again watch his soft breathing as he sleeps. None of that will matter when the lonely echoes of an empty house are replaced with the beautiful sounds of his everyday being. None of that will matter.