My Veteran

loves him

Faria

One day in a year is all he gets. Students thanking him for the day off, workers grateful for getting paid extra for their hour’s work, stores turning their signs to shut out customers, a news special on television. That’s all he gets.

That’s all that any one of them gets.

And what’s the price that they pay for this meager gratification? Scarred minds, images of death and destruction seared into their memories. A constant struggle to reclaim their lives.

What does he get?

His right arm amputated, just a stub of flesh remaining. Skin burned off of his face, nostrils disproportionate, lids drooping, hiding his pain-filled eyes from the world. Sleepless nights, a subconscious fear of slipping into the nightmare-filled arms of sleep.

And the worst part?

All of them, the students, the workers, the people who turn those store signs, and probably even a news anchor (if he ever met one) staring wide-eyed at him, some looking down with disgust, others with pity. But none of them ever tell him thanks. Thanks for the day off, thanks for the extra twenty bucks that I made today, thanks for fighting to protect me, my family, and my country. No, there are no thanks, just those inevitable stares that both he and I dread.

It hurts him, more than the pain from the explosion or the realization that his body will remain mutilated until the end of time. The stares that is. He doesn’t say anything to me about it, but I know. And the looks that he gets only add to his insecurities. When he got back, he didn’t think that his fiancée would marry him. But I did. And he doesn’t think that anyone accepts him, taking those looks as proof for his doubts.

He comes in, the door closing softly behind him, mail in hand, baseball cap covering his hairless head, but more importantly shielding him from the impertinences of the world. I hear him mutter something about bills and smile at his antics. He passes a comment about them every time he sees one.

“Happy Veterans Day,” I say to him, my eyes looking into his. He nods, pretending to be indifferent, trying his best to be manly about the whole thing. But I know that he’s going to be thinking about what I’ve said to him all night long. He’s going to relish those three words like a connoisseur gets pleasure from the wine that’s swishing around in his mouth. I know it.

He’s in the kitchen now and opening the envelopes that are in his hand. I get off of the couch, smoothing out the wrinkles in my knee-length floral skirt. Walking over to him, my black stilettos clicking on the hardwood floor, I whisper, “I love you,” in his ear, resting my head against his shoulder. I’m tall, so I have to stoop a little, but I don’t mind.

“I still don’t understand why. How many beauty pageants have you won? How many guys have probably dreamed about you? You’re the most beautiful woman alive and yet you’re living with me.”

I smile. He always tells me that. He really is silly for not having figured it out yet, even though I’ve told it to him a million times before. “I’m only beautiful because you think I am and if I weren’t married to you, I wouldn’t have anyone to tell me that.”

He turns around and smiles back. “Thanks.”

“No, thank you, my veteran.”