1st Lt Prifogle’s Blog

The things I was given

To say it seems like an eternity ago would put a value of time on it and out here time has no value. The workday never really ends and everyday is Monday when you work seven-day weeks. So, I’ll say it seems like a daydream ago. It being the day I said goodbye.

The week before I left I met with everyone I had become close to in the last year and a half of living in California. It didn’t seem real then and even now I am waiting to wake up from this dream. As I said goodbye, everyone had something for me. Nothing big, just things to take with me.

Mick, one of the owners of the Ould Sod, took me to lunch and asked me, “What religion are you?” I thought he was going to say a prayer with me and I’m spiritual, but not religious. He replied with his Irish wit, “it’s probably best that way. I want to give you something that has been blessed.” He handed me a pendant with St Patrick on one side and an Irish landscape and Gaelic on the other. “My mother gave this to me when I moved from Ireland to keep me safe. Take it to keep you safe, but I want it back when you come home safe and sound, dear.” I wear it on a gold chain with a smaller charm. Half a gold heart with “big sister” inscribed on it. I never take this necklace off.

Jill gave me a hat. Jill is an attorney who moved from New York to California for “sunshine, palm trees and surfer boys.” We met at the Ould Sod about a year ago and have been friends ever since. She sent me off with a New York Yankees hat. I forgot to pack one and knew that I would need one when I ran in the intense sun. “I’ll bring one tomorrow morning,” she told me when I was having my last few pints and racking my brain for anything I might have forgotten to pack the night before I left. She slipped a note in my pack with the hat and I read it on the plane leaving the states. “I’m not giving you anything sentimental because I don’t want you to be upset if you lose it!” was the first line. This made me smile through tears because as the plane was lifting off from Maine I realized I had never even been to Maine before. Jill knows me well enough to know I’m scatterbrained and most of the time I can’t keep track of my keys, wallet and cell phone. I laughed because she knows me so well. I laughed because even if I lost something Jill gave me she wouldn’t be mad – even if it had sentimental value. She would still love me and probably laugh at the story behind losing whatever it was. That’s the type of friend Jill is. What Jill doesn’t know is that the hat is very sentimental – to me. I’m not a baseball fan, but I know what the Yankees mean to her. Whenever someone sees it they ask if I’m a Yankees fan I always respond with an odd sense of pride, “No, but my best friend Jill is.”

Jill, the hat will always remind me of you. I wear it when I run. It’s cold here and I have to wear layers of clothes, but even now, when everything is dead the sun still burns my pale skin.

Tony, another Irish friend from the pub and bartender, gave me a pendant with the same speech as Mick. I thought he was making fun of Mick at first, but then I realized he was serious and left his bar unattended just to give it to me after I had already left to go home. This one is taped to my journal for safekeeping.

Olivia, my little neighbor saw me pack my teddy bear that used to be a lovely shade of pink, but now looks more a shade of murky off-white from years of love. Olivia decided my bear was going to get lonely. “You can take my bear to keep your bear company, Libby. I have more stuffed animals and I don’t really need it.” She told me as she tried to pack her big fluffy brown bear in my pack. She’s only six. The bear was from her Oma and Opa (grandma/grandpa) I snuck it out of my pack when she left the room in case she got lonely without her bear.

Matt, a friend who went to Al Asad with the same unit, MAG-16, a year ago gave me a neck strap. It’s bright red with yellow letters, “The few the proud. Marines.” embroidered on it. It was given to him from a man who served four tours in Vietnam. The man’s daughter had it while she fought cancer and gave it to her dad. He gave it to Matt to keep him safe and now it is in my front pocket every day keeping me safe.

My sister gave me a book – a journal. She gave it to me on Christmas morning. In it there is a tracing of everyone’s hands and a note. It is a tradition in our family to trace our hands on Mother’s day cards, wedding cards, graduation cards and even postcards. There is always a traced hand and age of the sender. My mom’s hand says “56 years young.” I didn’t even know my mom was 56. I read the notes when I returned from Christmas break and had to move out of my apartment, formerly known as the “treehouse”. Notes like “you’re the marshmallow” and “Red Cream Soda” made me realize how far away California is from Indiana and how far away 26 years old is from 12. Even now I open it up to write in it and flip through the notes and remember how much my family loves and misses me.

My nephew gave me a ring – a little ring that he bought at his elementary school and gave to all four of his Aunts for Christmas. I carry it in my pocket everyday. It has a big fake jewel and if I wore it, it would probably make my skin turn green, but I carry it with me and think of him everyday. For him, I also carry a wristband for the Epilepsy Foundation. It is half red, half blue and says, “think positive.” On my worse days I think of how terrible his seizures, the tests and surgeries were for him and how he went in every time with his head up and is more courageous then most adults I know. I keep the bracelet to remind me of his courage and love.

Allen gave me a video. He made it while I was asleep on his couch the night before I left. His couch always smelled like cat piss, but I fell asleep on it after work everyday despite of the smell. He made the video in his room and left it on my camera for a surprise. It’s only one minute long. Sixty seconds. It’s amazing how much just one minute of time – even in a world without time – can mean to someone. To see his face and hear his voice and to know at that moment in the history of the world – I’m still there. After I watch it I close my eyes and remember. I remember him gently waking me and whispering, “babe, I made something for you – it’s on your camera.” It took me a minute to wake up and I remember the sinking feeling when I realized this is it. We sat and talked, cried, laughed and made love one last time for a while. Sleep was not a priority that night. Enjoying every minute, every laugh, every tear that night was the priority.

I didn’t watch the video until I made the day and a half plane trip to the Middle East, spent two days in Kuwait and traveled down to Al Asad – my new home. The first night I pressed play. Half a world away I watched it and remembered – this is what I left behind, this is what I’m going home to. He is waiting for me. That first night I realized I am a woman in love and a woman at war – I don’t know which is a worse fate.

Even now. I’m used to things. I have a daily schedule. Weeks are marked by weekly meetings and an extra hour to sleep on Sunday. I don’t call. Parents, friends, siblings, they all email and ask if I’m okay and I am, but their voice sounds so far away. I know there is nothing they can do for me now. I am here to protect them, to defend their freedom. They can only send love and letters, because to talk to them kills me. Hearing their voice makes me want to come home. So, I don’t call because it’s easier not to; it’s easier not to write home except to say “I’m okay.” What they can do is accept this and know I’m okay.

But that video. I have my love on video and I can listen to it whenever I want. In the middle of the day I can escape for one whole minute. I can go back to the time before this. I can hit play and remember I am loved and I have that love to go home to.

And the charms. I play with the charms around my neck at the gym and remember the fun times at the Sod. I realize all the fun times to come when I make it home safe.

The journal. I look at the notes and ages of my family and realize my dad is 54 – how’d that happen?

NY Yankees. That hat will be faded from the sun by the time I get home. But I know Jill will be glad it protected my skin and my eyes from the burning sun.

The neck strap, the ring, the letters, the pictures I have them all to remind me what I am coming home to when home seems so far away. So, thank you – for your love and support and all these things to keep me safe. But mostly just for your friendships and waiting for me to come home.

Trackback URI | Comments RSS