He wakes early, by habit,
Stretching his tired bones.
He lingers a moment,
Watching his wife and daughter
Their chests rising and falling,
Sleeping so soundly,
Their eyelids fluttering
With beautiful dreams.
Today he deploys
For the second time,
Not knowing if he will return.
He thinks back a few hours—
Frank Sinatra spinning
On the turntable in the corner,
His daughter snuggled
Safe in his arms
As he shuffles and rocks,
Over and over.
He thinks back
To his own childhood.
The father he feared,
The nights he lay awake
Comforting his young brother,
Praying their mother
Would please return,
If only to read them
A bedtime story.
He is exhausted.
He questions his choices,
Wondering what they will mean
For the little family
He loves so much.
Every passing minute
Is a crippling self-doubt.
Dawn arrives too suddenly.
He sits at the kitchen table,
Awaiting the truck
That will carry him away again.
He is not a perfect man,
But he loves them.
Years from now,
His daughter will sit
With a pen in her hand,
Writing the story
She hopes will tell him
That this was always enough.