Making sure the door didn’t squeak, Imogen tip-toed into her three year old son’s bedroom. She nearly collapsed when she saw him lying there, so blissfully unaware with his thumb in his mouth.
Her heart was beating harder than it ever had in her life. She couldn’t believe she was saying goodbye. When would she see him again? She could not possibly know for certain. Either way, it would not, could not, be soon enough.
She leant over the bed. Guy was sound asleep. His soft, round face was clearly far away in some fairyland. Imogen wished she could share with him the innocence, safety and wonder of whatever little dreamland he was floating in, but her duty wasn’t to share, it was to protect. Somewhere between the pain in her face and the joy in his lay a twisted threshold between two realities, held together by a bridge she was not sure would take her weight. Her throat was tightening as she fought to hold back the tears. She realised she wouldn’t be able to look at him as long as she would like. She couldn’t risk crying and waking him and she was already on the brink. What would happen were she to let all the emotions come streaming out? She’d be certain to wake Guy; then he would start crying; she would pick him up, cradle him in her arms and rock him back to sleep, but once she was holding him she would never be able to let go.
Knowing she had to be quick, she reached around her neck and removed a set of dog tags. She didn’t know why she was giving them to him. It just felt right. They were the same ones her father had given her when she was young, and she had thought about him every time she put them on. They were like an eternal bond. It was with hope that Guy would think of her and know how loved he was every day that she wrapped them around his neck. She couldn’t help but wonder whether Guy, like his two parents and Imogen’s mother and father before them, would eventually find himself in the occupation so dominant in the family.
‘Look after daddy for me, hey, my little soldier?’ She kissed him on the forehead and stroked his hair. How long would it be before they met again, she wondered? And his face, how much older would it be? How much would she miss? What adventures, what accidents, what laughs, what cries, what days, what hours, what stories? A tear rose in her eyes and fell on Guy’s thin yellow blanket that he always cuddled in bed. ‘I love you,’ she stated simply before mustering all her might to turn and march out of the room.
She hurried down the stairs and out the front door, where her old friend Roy sat waiting for her in his truck. He had a cigar in his mouth, as always, and his face, which looked far older than it was, was wearing the same reassuring smile as ever.
‘They’ll be fine,’ said Roy in his thick, low voice. Imogen couldn’t respond. Roy tapped her on the leg sympathetically before hitting the throttle. The truck sped her away from home.