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Little habits are the hardest to break.

I still try to spin the glass bead on our necklace, though it has long been put away. I still wake up and reach for the blanket you stole, only to find it still where it should – shouldn’t – be, stretched neatly across your side of the bed and tangled around my legs. I still have moments where I can’t breathe, for fear of losing you, long after you’ve already been lost.

For years, I tried to dissuade you. With your linguistic talents, you would have been useful anywhere. With your love of life, the way you laughed and grinned and winked – I can still see you, grinning from behind the glass frame in your only photograph – until I stopped brooding and joined you, with that, you could have– You could have–

What can ‘civic duty’ mean, when the government doesn’t care about us – me, now – and the country votes us – me, me, not us, me – down, and the world is spinning out of control and I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!

Little habits are the hardest to break.

Every morning, I still look at your letter to me – yellowed with age already? impossible! – and run a finger over the letters inscribed into your dog tag. I tidy up the house to forget, to remove your presence, but there are always reminders. The wine stains in the dining room. The bookshelf, full of grammar books and encyclopedias. The jacket in the closet. I can’t give those memories away.

The kitchen was your domain. I can’t eat or cook in there anymore. The dining room was where we had the best discussions – do you remember the fight we had over verb tenses? I tell the story to everyone, but no one understands the humor of it, the hilarity of a stupid argument with a wonderful reconciliation – and I can barely stand in the doorway. The living room was our place to rest quietly, shoulder to shoulder, drowning out the world. I can barely sit down. The bedroom– I can’t sleep.

After I’ve done all I can, I try to numb my mind. It doesn’t work.

I watch television – I turn to see if you thought the joke was funny.

I read a book – I look behind me to see if you’re reading over my shoulder.

I write stories – I wonder if you would have enjoyed them.

In the end, I return to your picture, and stroke your dog tag. My soldier girl, fighting in a war neither of us believed in because you wanted to live up to your patriotic duty. Fighting for a country that considered us unworthy of marriage. Fighting for people that would never thank you.

And fighting for me, when all I wanted was for you to come home.

Little habits are the hardest to break. No matter how many years pass, I always cry.

~

This is a piece that I've entered in several Gaian writing contests, but I haven't really received much feedback on. I love criticism, so don't worry about being nice in your responses. Also, if you have any questions, feel free to ask about anything.

Have a nice day!
~ Moya

That was so sad and beautiful. There's something about how this is written that catches your attention.

Loved it. It's concise, touching, & I got teary.

Heartbreaking in its truth