Poem: kylie byers
Day Zero
thunk
I look out the window at the airstrip and find that the plane has straightened out onto the runway. Its wheels trudge slowly, loudly, steadily over the cracks in the cement, sending a distinct thunk through the body of the aircraft every time. The airlift wing’s hangars sit staunchly beside us, unaware that they have been our home since 0400 this morning when the sky was still dark and snowflakes teased the early winter air. Neither the dark nor the cold could hold our attention.
thunk
Soldiers had been scattered around the inside of the hangar for hours; sleeping in chairs, on each other’s shoulders, on the floor. Headphones drowned out the mind numbing silence of the wait for some, while others watched the clock closely, waiting for a decent hour so they could call home. The atmosphere was a strange mixture of relief, nerves, and excitement—we had been training for a year for this deployment, and now it was about to begin.
thunk
The wheels thud across another crack and I glance out the window to try to see the armory’s barriers; our unit’s home, full of ups and downs, jokes and struggles, where we learned new skills and perfected old ones, where now our families should be waiting to wave goodbye. I can’t see anyone yet.
thunk
Inside the plane, the other soldiers in my unit sit; some restless, some already asleep—again. We have been awake for over five hours and it’s not even 10 in the morning. Our uniforms and weapons look out of place against the bright white interior of the aircraft. My boots scuff along the navy-colored carpet.
thunk
I look left and overtop of the sleeping head of one of my buddies and I can see the parking lot from a distance. The plane’s speed is increasing steadily and I can see the scenery traveling faster past the window. Families are standing on barriers to get a better view and wave.
thunk
I know all they see is a row of far away, little round windows, but I like to think that maybe they can see one or two of our faces peering back at them. Most of the heads on the plane are craned down to catch one last glimpse of home.
thunk
I think I can see arms waving now, and children being held on shoulders. My eyes scan across spouses and parents and kids and all sorts of relatives of members of my unit until I think I see you.
thunk
Maybe it’s your green sweater I see, the one you were wearing when we first met. You told me you’d wear it today. We’re moving fast now, and maybe it was just a tree.
thunk
Did I hug you long enough before I left? It could have been longer. I shouldn’t have let go so soon. A longer hug would have shown you that I’m not abandoning you; reminded you that this hurts me just like it hurts you.
thunk
Did I take out the trash for you one last time? Are there dirty dishes in the sink? Do you have enough food in the fridge?
thunk
Will things be the same when I come home?
thunk
Will I be the same when I come home?
thunk
There are still so many things I want to say
thunk
I could have used one more hug
thunk
I wanted to
thunk
tell you
thunk
one more
thunk
time
thunk
that
thunk
thunk
thunk
swoosh
We’re airborne,
and I wish I could tell you
one more time
I love you.
about the writer: kylie krummel byers
Kylie Krummel Byers is an Indiana transplant living in West Virginia with her husband and their two cats. She is a recent Shepherd University graduate currently serving in the United States military, but not even a deployment can get in the way of her writing. She enjoys reading four books at a time on her Kindle, watching Netflix, and writing in her (rare) free time.
