June 08, 2003 - 9:40 p.m.

Here is a paper someone wrote in my sister in laws english class. Made me think of our lives as military spouses. Especially since my own husband is in the Navy and I've actually experienced this myself. (minus the kids of course, but soon, we'll have one to add to the joyous occasion of home coming.)

The Middle Kiss

The sun beats down on my head, hot and brutal already, even though it's only nine in the morning. The sluggish breeze off the Gulf merely stirs the humidity through the crowd packed on the pier. The girls dance around my legs; is he here yet? Is he here yet?

No, I tell them, fanning one of their red and gold pompoms before my face. The plastic strands stick to my cheeks, and do nothing to relieve the heat.

A cheer across the pier gets our attention. A ship is moving around the bend in the channel. It's not ours, but it's a start! The other wives and I, all sweating in our red shirts, watch enviously as the ship docks. It's amazing how quickly the ungainly ship glides alongside the pier. We watch as the pusher boats back away, to wait at the edge of the basin for the next ship.

A crane swings the brow across to the docked ship. There is an order to this, the welcoming. The CO's wife moves to the front of the pack, and the winner of the wives' First Kiss contest. The husbands come across the brow, receive their kisses, and then it's a free-for-all. A swarm of white-clad sailors throng down the ladders, along the rail and over the brow, melting into the eager crowd of their wives and children.

I turn away. I take the girls down the pier, out of the crowd for a moment. There's water on a table, sweating plastic bottles lined up in orderly rows. Chunks of ice float in each one, the water deliciously cold as it slips down my parched throat.

I'm wilting. My careful makeup has long since poured off my face, and I know I'm red as a beat. I soak a washcloth in the icy water from my bottle, and squeeze it over my daughters' heads. Their faces are red too, and they're too short to benefit from the fitful whispers of wind.

Two more ships have pulled in by the time the girls and I wander back to our gang. Finally, at long last, I hear the blast of the social coordinator's air horn. The pompoms start shaking, and as the ship rounds the turn and comes even with the end of the pier, the horn sounds again.

The ship responds with a blast from their own horn, a deep foggy sound that reverberates through my entire body. We see other waiting wives, watching us with envy in their eyes; they didn't think of pompoms or matching shirts or air horns.

I don't care. I strain my eyes, scanning the lines of men around all the rails. Then I see him, his face tanned, his dark eyes searching for me. I lift the little one up in my arms, sobbing now and waving wildly. My oldest waves her pompom. I feel like I can't breathe anymore, the heat and the knot in my throat, and my yearning to kiss him. Just that, just feel his arms around me.

It seems forever this time. The other ships that'd docked so quickly...we stand in the sun, waving and calling. The men on the ship turn as one; the wisps of a PA message drift across the water to us. They leave the rails and run off. The brow drops into place and the CO comes across...the husband who won First Kiss...

I watch for him, my hands wrapped around my daughters', slick with sweat. Just when I feel as if I'll shatter with waiting, he's pushing his way to us, his seabag over his shoulder. The girls first, they get their hugs and wrap themselves around his legs like some variety of constricting limpet, both talking at once, each keeping a firm grip on him, determined not to let him go again.

Then he looks into my eyes and opens his arms...I forget everything; the months of loneliness and anxiety and waiting...finally, sobbing so hard I can't see, I feel his arms around me, his lips touch mine... A child clinging to each leg, I'm sure that no one is as happy and fulfilled as I am, with my middle kiss. VS

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