A Courageous Emptiness

         The ache is almost unbearable—this choking, gasping, throat closing emotion that consumes me every waking minute; silent, body wracking sobs with enough force that my body curls over into itself and I come up gasping for air.  There’s emptiness in my arms, a weightless feeling that causes me to wrap my arms around myself in a desperate attempt to recall the feel of her in my arms.  The loss of her warmth is felt to the very depths of my soul.
         I gaze down at a picture of her, gripped tightly in my hand.  She’s grinning from ear to ear, showcasing her beautiful smile, and her green eyes glitter with childish delight.  She’s reaching for the person holding the camera with such adoration and love in her eyes and, remembering that look all too well, a violent twist of my heart causes tears to fill my eyes, and they slip down my cheeks to fall on the precious photograph.
         The sound of her sweet, innocent giggle surfaces in my mind, and a tiny smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, momentarily distracting me from the pain spreading through my chest and the shallow breaths I’m beginning to take.
         Her small, delicate hands hold more than the flowers she’s raising towards the camera in the photo.  They hold the essence of my entire being—the air I breathe, the beat of my heart, the flow of blood through my veins.  Most importantly, they hold the reason for every decision I have made up to this point.
         I chose an all-consuming ache over starvation; I chose endless, lonely nights over uncompromising fear; I chose this life over the chance of no life with her at all.  I do not regret it, for regretting means I wish things had been different.  I don’t want a different life; I want the life I have.
         My sergeant pounds on the window beside me, snapping me out of my thoughts.
         “Dismount!” He yells through the glass and then disappears through the doorway of the deserted building.
         I quickly slip the picture into the folds of my gear and hastily wipe my eyes.  There is no weakness in a soldier; we are brave, courageous, and strong.  I breathe in deeply to steady the encroaching pain, and it slowly fades to a mild ache—always there, always present.
         As I step out into the overwhelming heat that sucks the air from my lungs, I smile a little bit more, filled with determination and pride.
         If only she could see me now—boy, would she be impressed, I think.  She’ll tell her friends, ‘Look!  That’s my mommy standing there looking brave in her uniform.  Look at her!  Isn’t she beautiful?  Isn’t she strong?  That’s my mommy.’
         I rest my hand over my heart where the photograph sits and thank God for the millionth time for the beautiful and remarkable blessing he gave me.  Without her, my life would be meaningless, and the cause that I fight for would not be as significant.