I know you've only been gone a few weeks, and we have over a year of separations stretching out ahead of us.
But baby and I already miss you. I hope it's okay to say that.
Whenever I see couples together, I think of you. Your hands are so tough and calloused, but they hold my hands so tenderly. Your chin is sometimes scruffy and scratchy, but I love to feel it on my cheeks.
Baby wants to be just like you. I tell him about you every day. I tell him how much you love him. How you will do anything to keep our family and our country safe so he can grow up and have a family, too.
Every night we write to you. I don't include things like the cockroaches that came in through the crack in the wall, the toilet seat that broke, the extra-big electricity bill we had from last month.
But I tell you about the extra box of vegetables our CSA gave us. The extra bunch of tatsoi the farmer stuffed in our load. The ladies who surrounded me at church and carried my diaper bag and purse and coat to the car for me. I tell you how baby wears your old t-shirts and looks at pictures of you.
How he took me on a date to Starbucks, and held my purse, and talked and laughed with me just like he always saw you do every Sunday after church.
Even held my hand, just like you.
I miss you, darling, and I'm not ashamed of that.
I'm proud of you, and I want everyone to know that.
Baby is just like you, and you should know that.
We're just waiting, now.
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