She stood outside of the security line yesterday watching her husband leave. They are both in their early 30's, he tall and strong and wearing his uniform. She medium height and a little heavy. She is legally blind, though not entirely sightless, and wears hearing aids. She is a housewife. He is a soldier going back for his 3rd tour in Iraq.
As he makes his way up the line she changes locations to get as close to the screening gate as possible. When she moves she loses sight of him, or of the blur that represents him. She is just on the other side of the nylon barrier rope from me. I ask her what her husband's name is. "Kevin," she says.
I shout his name, he turns and I wave and point at his wife. Knowing her and her trouble seeing he steps away from the line and waves his arms so she can identify which blur he is. She says his name, softly, over and over and over again while gazing in his direction.
He walks over and puts his hands on her shoulders.
"Don't cry, baby. I'll be back. Besides, you won't have to worry about some big, smelly guy leaving his dirty clothes lying around or forgetting to put the toilet seat down."
As she clutches a part of his shirt in her hand she says "I miss your dirty clothes when you're gone. If you promise you're coming back I'll never complain about them, again."
She says it quiet and desperate, in a way that rips your heart out through your throat.
He passes through security and she stares after him long after he's gone. Her mother-in-law, who has stood off to the side to give them their moment, comes for her and says, "He's gone, now, Kallie."
She says, "I know."
"We should leave now, honey."
"Not yet", Kallie says. "This is as close as I'll be to him for a long, long time."
