Six Days

Quiet. 

Puzzles and Rainbows.

Thunder is rolling somewhere far away. The last of the rain is working its way from leaf to the ground. The birds, singing to the raindrops and a bright red cardinal, chirping at me through the open door keep the world from feeling absolutely still. Waiting for something. I don't know what. The fan is running but I've gotten so I don't hear that anymore. The AC kicking in. My grassy green meadow is heavy with green and the deep dark smell of wet earth in the summertime. 

Ace is gone. He is somewhere 32,000 feet in the sky; most likely napping instead of worrying about making his connection, which is good. Headed home to the puppies and the work that’s been building since he arrived. Air conditioners that won’t run because grass has gotten into the intake valve or bent props from obstacles that could not be avoided. Anxious Captains of boats that have been lifting and swaying, alone and still in the warm waters of south Florida.

Far more than 24 hours has zoomed by. It’s not Six Days. It’s MINUS 11. What was I thinking when I decided documenting this each day was a good idea? It's sort of like deciding that you're going to put a new message on your voice mail every morning. You know, “Good morning, this is Pat, today is…” I did that for a while. Good for customers perhaps, but very hard to keep up. I suspect it was my attempt to slow down the march of days... 

At Six days I was in the training room. Too busy to worry or obsess.  Answering questions. Sharing everything I can think might be relevant, might help them get the most from their investment of time and energy. Except this. They have no idea what's happening outside these rooms. And I have no idea about them. I'll get snippets here and there. Traveling stories or the relative comfort of their room and the food. I’ll stay focused and deliver.

At Five days I was in the training room too. A good day, busy playing hide and seek with the enhanced feature sets always found in beta software. At Four days, packing and sorting and running out for last minute items. Dinner on the water. 

A CELEBRATION! A request from Bran at the start to his sea-going journey. At Three days? Time spent in the car. 345 miles. A family event – the best and easiest way to be sure he got to see his Grandparents before he left – and they get to see him. Dad turns 90 in October and best case scenario, Bran won’t be back until the fall of 2015. Day two? Was at rest. New Hampshire is beautiful in June. The mosquitoes are fierce but there are moments. No wonder they live there. The isolation would make me nuts. 

At Day One? In the car. 528 miles and 12 hours, through three major cities. Unavoidable perhaps, but FORGET Google Maps! It's 7:30 pm. The only restaurant for miles and miles closes at 8. Just in time, fish tacos and sunset. 

Day Zero. Is there such a thing? Ground Zero. No, that's a bad metaphor in my mind. How about the first day, Day One in an ascending value stream? Zero was somewhere between 11:59 and 12:01. Yes, Bran - Day One. Up, packed and ready by 8. Can’t drag him out of his early morning coma for the most part. Except on Day One. We have time. Doesn’t matter. He cannot rest. Breakfast is attempted and discarded.

It’s a beautiful spot. A young man, a leader (I’m not sure how that translates to rank) who has already told me how special Bran must be to be participating in an international program with 400 applicants each month, 25 acceptances, just 12 or so in each class. Navy blue t-shirts and jeans – their uniform for the next three months. Black steel toed shoes and socks in the hot sun. It was over in an instant. His bags out of the car and gone. I'd been afraid of that. He’d left his sunglasses. I got to run in. He was annoyed, but grateful. 

I cannot imagine being the mother of a soldier. This is hard enough. My heart goes out to each and every one of you. Proud and fearful. I am grateful. 

439 miles and home.