Soldier

As my combat army boots stumbled through the airport,
My body thirsty for fresh water, my legs crippled with sores, my arms lethargic and weak, my torso blistered with sunburn, my emotions took a hold of me. With pride for my country, I marched through the airport terminal waiting to fall into the arms of my own little soldier. People stared at me, almost as if I was a famous person who was unexpected. I saw the gratification in each person’s eyes as I stumbled past the domestic gate in the uniform where they put trust. I held my head high as I staggered into my country again. I saw each family over-whelmed with joy to see loved ones again; some looked as though they had never met. I had a sudden flashback of Afghanistan. I began to hear guns firing and innocent people yelling. I was glad to be home. The four years my troops and I spent in Afghanistan were those of humility, service and heartbreak. Eager to find my soldier, people looked at me as though they had never seen a woman serving their country. I took pride in that. In a matter of minutes those past four years began to be of less importance to me anymore, there she was. Standing with her fingers in her mouth, her hair neatly braided, her shoes untied and her eyes weak, I ran to her as though I was running from a bullet. I collapsed to my knees holding her to my chest. I held her so tight I could feel her little heart beating in my shoulder. I told her, “Mummy’s home, Mummy’s OK.” From that she clenched