On his eighteenth birthday he signed an eight year contract at a local army recruitment center. A few months later he went off to basic training. He was allowed to return home for the holidays before boot camp had officially ended.
I learned to recognize a certain look in the eyes of men who have served in the military. A British photographer recently created an exhibit of photos taken of soldiers before, during, and after war. The rigidity in their faces and pleading harshness of their gaze is unmistakable. Something changes within them, even before they've seen combat.
I picked my then-boyfriend up at the airport when he landed back in Boston before the end of basic training. He stood straight backed and strode hurriedly across the airport; I was nearly jogging to keep up beside him. I remember he wouldn't hold my hand because there was some regulation that declared he must hold his duffel bag in one hand and his beret in the other. I remember thinking that these new rules were ridiculous and offered room only for order and regularity.
After high school, I started working at a bookstore in the Prudential Center. He would come to meet me when he was free so that I wouldn't have to walk back to the train station and home alone. I took a photo of him just before he left for basic. He smiled slyly at the camera, one knee bent to rest his foot on the metal subway platform sign, his shoulders unevenly slouched forward, a hat cocked slightly off center, his flannel, ripped jeans, and long sleeved shirt with fraying thumb holes were the image of the man I'd fallen in love with. Three months later, on leave, I asked to take another picture of him. He stood tall, arms locked by his side, fingers clenched into fists, feet at a perfect right angle, shoulders pressed back, lips pursed in a fine line, his bare head showed stubble where hair had once been. Something in him had changed.
He packed his green, army-issued duffel bag with clothes and Christmas gifts. The glass block, etched with roses and "I love you" was one of the gifts he wrapped securely in socks to bring back from Georgia. I kept it on my bureau for years and would look at it each morning as I got ready for work or college classes.
It's amazing how much clarity comes from being detached from a situation or person. As I have recorded all of these stories about my ex-husband, I see that our relationship was set to fail from the start. We were two completely different people, even then, and the gap between us only grew wider as the years went on and our world views changed. Toward the end of our relationship, I observed that the only thing we had in common was our past together. Now, the only thing keeping him in my life is the objects I've held on to, too afraid to let go of the past, of the "us", that could never have lasted.
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