Once More I Remember

    Memories are our past experiences that have left an impact on our lives. Our memories are what we hold dear to us so that we may reminisce the past because they make us who we are. I look back on my life and remember the banging of a door being opened then closed, the thunking of bags being dropped, and the building of tension in my seven year old body as I waited for my dad to bellow out, "Princess, I'm home!" at which I would come sprinting out of my bedroom and leap into his open arms, trying not to cry. He hugged me until I could not breathe any more, and then he set me down and kissed my tear soaked cheek.

    I gazed into my father's gray-blue eyes, the same eyes as mine, as my heart caught in my throat. It had been a couple of long, stressful months, and he was only staying two weeks before he would take off again. I had etched his face into my memory so that if I ever lost him, he would always be with me.

My father's eyes sparkled as he reached for one of the bulging bags at his feet and handed it to me. As always, it was full of wonderful surprises from all of the different places he had been: from stuffed animals, to figurines, to a preserved alligator head my dog later ate.

    I remember the joy of having my dad drop me off and pick me up from school, and then take me to get ice cream afterwards. I remember the silent meals we would have the night before he left again. And I remember the familiar feeling of that bottomless pit in the middle of my gut as I watched him drive away from me again. I never want to feel that way again.

    However, I will have to relive the pressure filled years of my youth because my younger, nine year old brother decided to follow our family tradition of joining the military. He grew up, just like I did, on the stories of battle, worn war heroes sacrificing themselves to rescue prisoners in the far off countries. It breaks my heart to imagine my little brother in hostile areas where he could potentially die, or worse, have it break him on the inside. 

    I know that he is young and that his dream may change, but then again I have never seen such knowledge in a child's eyes before. He grew up with these stories of pain, loss, and self sacrifice. He knows what is at stake and that scares me the most because I am so deathly afraid of losing him the same way I was with my father. My memories haunt me and keep taking me back to the agonizing waiting and the tearful goodbyes. And I can't help but not want to say goodbye, for fear of it being the last time.