SEMPER MAMA

By Katherine L. Szerdy

**Dedicated to my son, Capt. Darren S. Szerdy, USMC, USNA Class of 2002

           

Since February 21, 2004,                                          

For 133 days                                                                        

my days have been interspersed                                

with frequent thoughts of you, my son,                            

deployed somewhere in                                             

You-can’t-tell-me-exactly-where,

Iraq.                                                                            

As I drive home today,                                              

Windows down, enjoying cool summer breezes        

I wonder what you might be doing right then,       

    right now                                                                    

I struggle to imagine                                                   

going for weeks                                                         

in 120-degree heat                                                    

with no shower,                                                             

hygiene consisting of                                                

daily head shavings                                                     

The boredom                                                           

sleep deprivation,                                                           

frustrations                                                                  

interspersed with                                                              

occasional moments of                                                      

reward                                                                       

    or adventure                                                                     

and same old news of nearby loss,                                     

the agony of diplomatic efforts                                                                   

            rewarded with dysentery,                          

                        old Persian custom                           

                        verbal agreements made over                   

sheep kabobs

    searching in the dark for

    a blessing,

    moments of meaningfulness.

Causes my heart to skip a beat

when I think of it all.

During Sunday phone calls

I listen intently,

trying to discern in your voice

what you cannot give voice to.

I rest in the knowledge that,

for that moment anyway,

you are alive and well.

After dinner I imagine you 

might be sleeping

0330 your time, 1930 mine

and I pray that God would grant you

     deep, 

          restful,   

               r e s t o r a t i v e

 sleep.

I've rekindled the nightly habit

 of kneeling at my bed in prayer,

     hands folded,

     knees calloused,

for your safety

and

for no blue cars,

no knocks at the front door

for only 67 more Arabian nights.

Love you oodles and oodles,

Mamacita