I'm forgetting the in-between moments of life together. Sure I see pictures of him. I hear his sweet voice and his laugh, the laugh I desperately try for because it’s so contagious that I can’t help but return it. And sometimes if I’m really lucky, I even get to see a pixelated, delayed version of his talking face on my computer screen.
But I am forgetting the every-day moments. The moments that slip into the cracks on the large-scale of life, but end up being the stitches that piece together the fabric of a beautiful life.
I don't remember the way his breath felt on my neck or how he smelled in the mornings. I have to squeeze my eyes tight, so tight, to remember if the outsides of his irises are more green than brown or the way his back muscles rippled under his shirt. I've almost forgotten the several different ways his kisses taste, and how my favorite is in the late afternoon, right before dinner. I am not sure what the back of his neck feels like anymore, and what silly games we used to play before going to sleep. I don’t really know if our inside jokes are still funny, and sometimes I have to sit completely still to remember how his whispers sound.
All that's left is a voice many miles away, an old tan undershirt that I never washed because it still has traces of his scent, and the reverberating fact that stares at me everywhere I go..."your husband is deployed."
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