I am not sure what I expected when I married a Marine, someone who felt called to join from a young age, and then someone whose resolve was only strengthened on 9/11. When I was on the phone with my mom that morning, trying to figure out what exactly had happened, crying heaving sobs to the person that made me feel safe-he was actively seeking his superiors, trying to leave his scholarship and enlist…immediately.
Ten years later, I’m standing at Quantico. My husband walks out of his office and kisses us, once me and once my daughter, on the cheek.
He doesn’t pay attention to the helicopters, but I keep my eye on them circling.
‘Ready for lunch?’ he asks.
We nod. I purposely follow behind him, watching this stately man as he strolls, perfectly upright, in a forward march.
Once more I look to the sky and adjust my daughter on my hip. I whisper the prayer of every military mother to her own child, the one my mother may have whispered to her own.
I pray that she is always safe and happy, I pray that her father is always safe and happy, and I pray that she never forgets that her daddy is the kind of man who runs toward the sound of the helicopters, of the action, and doesn’t stop and stare.
I pray for my mother, that she may guide me as we walk this path full of stumbling blocks that she has mastered. I thank her.
And I pray that my daughter never has to experience wartime in the way we all know it.
I pray for her innocence.
