acknowledgement, I pressed my nose into her hair and inhaled a slow breath. I viewed my time at war as an opportunity to serve my country, and never really felt sorry for myself for what I was required to forfeit to do so. Each time I returned home, I was reminded of the things I missed, and although seeing Suzanne proved to me that God existed, inhaling a hint of her scent was much more satisfying.
It reassured me that she existed.
After swallowing my gum, I reached down, lifted her chin slightly, and kissed her. The kiss wasn’t aggressive, extremely long, or close to what most Marine wives received upon their husband’s return to the states, but it was appropriate, respectful, and provided all the support she needed to understand where it was I had placed her.
On a pedestal above anything and everything on the earth.
Most men, upon returning home from the war, more than likely greeted their wives or girlfriends with the tip of their dick. I believed there was a time and a place for sex, and was actually quite fond of fucking the woman I loved, but for the next hour or so I needed to simply hold her in my arms, inhale her scent, and talk to her. She’d been through this routine enough times that she knew what to expect from me. Sitting down, eating a meal together, and talking allowed my mind to return back to civilization, and at least for the amount of time I was home, feel like things were different.
“God, I love kissing you,” she said as our lips parted.
She leaned back and shifted her eyes up and down my frame. “You look like you’ve lost weight. Come on, let me make you something to eat. Are you hungry?”
I reached for my pack, lifted it to my shoulder, and nodded my head. “I could eat.”
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s eat, and then we’ll curl up in a ball on the couch.”
She turned away, walked up the steps and held the door open.
I paused at the first step and glanced at the front of the house before allowing my eyes to openly gaze around the yard. Leaves had filled the gutters, and the yard was littered with the various colors of fall.
Most men would perceive a yard full of leaves as a pain in the ass. Work. Time that could be spent watching a football game.
Me?
I saw it as exactly what it was.
Beautiful.
I grinned, exhaled, and followed her into the house.
God, it feels good to be home.
CHAPTER THREE
Early Spring 2004, Fallujah, Iraq
The First Battle of Fallujah.
I grew up the only son of high school sweethearts who fell in love, married, and remained true to each other until my mother passed away. My father never remarried after her death, claiming his only love to be my mother, and further explaining that allowing another woman into his life, at any level, would be disrespectful to his deceased wife and only love.
I respected him for his position on love, relationships, and as a father. As a child, my friends often claimed their hero to be a television character, someone in a movie, or even a superhero from a comic book.
Me?
My father was my only hero.
He took me deer hunting for the first time when I was twelve. Although I was young, I had spent my short life around weapons, learning to respect them, understand their inner workings, and how to properly handle them safely. My father described me as a natural , claiming one day I would be in the Olympics as a marksman, but I knew otherwise.
I wanted to be like my uncle, who was a former Marine and a Vietnam war veteran. My father’s brother, and a man who didn’t demand respect – but received it from those who understood him. He was less apt to speak than any other of my relatives, but when he did, his advice was always well thought out and easy to apply to life.
As we sat in the tree stand waiting for a deer to cross the trail a hundred yards ahead, my father questioned whether or not I was ready, and, ultimately, if I was ready, would I be able to make a shot at such a
It reassured me that she existed.
After swallowing my gum, I reached down, lifted her chin slightly, and kissed her. The kiss wasn’t aggressive, extremely long, or close to what most Marine wives received upon their husband’s return to the states, but it was appropriate, respectful, and provided all the support she needed to understand where it was I had placed her.
On a pedestal above anything and everything on the earth.
Most men, upon returning home from the war, more than likely greeted their wives or girlfriends with the tip of their dick. I believed there was a time and a place for sex, and was actually quite fond of fucking the woman I loved, but for the next hour or so I needed to simply hold her in my arms, inhale her scent, and talk to her. She’d been through this routine enough times that she knew what to expect from me. Sitting down, eating a meal together, and talking allowed my mind to return back to civilization, and at least for the amount of time I was home, feel like things were different.
“God, I love kissing you,” she said as our lips parted.
She leaned back and shifted her eyes up and down my frame. “You look like you’ve lost weight. Come on, let me make you something to eat. Are you hungry?”
I reached for my pack, lifted it to my shoulder, and nodded my head. “I could eat.”
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s eat, and then we’ll curl up in a ball on the couch.”
She turned away, walked up the steps and held the door open.
I paused at the first step and glanced at the front of the house before allowing my eyes to openly gaze around the yard. Leaves had filled the gutters, and the yard was littered with the various colors of fall.
Most men would perceive a yard full of leaves as a pain in the ass. Work. Time that could be spent watching a football game.
Me?
I saw it as exactly what it was.
Beautiful.
I grinned, exhaled, and followed her into the house.
God, it feels good to be home.
CHAPTER THREE
Early Spring 2004, Fallujah, Iraq
The First Battle of Fallujah.
I grew up the only son of high school sweethearts who fell in love, married, and remained true to each other until my mother passed away. My father never remarried after her death, claiming his only love to be my mother, and further explaining that allowing another woman into his life, at any level, would be disrespectful to his deceased wife and only love.
I respected him for his position on love, relationships, and as a father. As a child, my friends often claimed their hero to be a television character, someone in a movie, or even a superhero from a comic book.
Me?
My father was my only hero.
He took me deer hunting for the first time when I was twelve. Although I was young, I had spent my short life around weapons, learning to respect them, understand their inner workings, and how to properly handle them safely. My father described me as a natural , claiming one day I would be in the Olympics as a marksman, but I knew otherwise.
I wanted to be like my uncle, who was a former Marine and a Vietnam war veteran. My father’s brother, and a man who didn’t demand respect – but received it from those who understood him. He was less apt to speak than any other of my relatives, but when he did, his advice was always well thought out and easy to apply to life.
As we sat in the tree stand waiting for a deer to cross the trail a hundred yards ahead, my father questioned whether or not I was ready, and, ultimately, if I was ready, would I be able to make a shot at such a
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