I sat on the back patio, thinking, crying, hoping, and conversing with the night wind. Only a few months earlier, my three children’s voices had filled the night air, with the joking around and laughter only the young seem to express so unflinchingly. I wondered if Aaron, my youngest son, was in Germany yet, after being injured in Iraq. Was he aware of what was going on around him, or was he being kept unconscious? Did he know how much I loved him and how it was tearing me up inside, not being with him?
As the early morning sun slowly began to touch the clear, peaceful sky, all I could think of was that Aaron’s eyes mimicked that same cool blue color. I sat there with the phone held tightly in my hand, waiting anxiously for the next call, to let me know where my son was, what his medical condition was, and when he would be transported back to the States, and to me…
Writing to Heal 