Packing

My beloved is upstairs packing. I should be grateful that he's not off to The Sandy Place (he's going to a meeting in Scandanavia) but I still loathe seeing the frigging detritus of packing because I have never quite got past loathing seeing him leave.

When we were discussing if he should step out of the Army a year early to take up his (now) job, one of the things which sold it to him was that he would continue to travel regularly, internationally. We're such different people in that respect. If I could gather everyone I love into a mile square village I swear I'd never leave it, but my boy, well he is an adventurer.

When he used to come home bearing news of an Op Tour , a mission, or an exercise, he would don an air of regret in an attempt to soften the blow for me, but he couldn't stop his eyes from shining. He'd announce: 'Well Darling, the good news is that I'm going to get another medal, the bad news is that I have to go to..... insert hideous war zone....to get it'. I'd sob, he'd console - but I was always aware that he was raring to go and so it remains - the shining eyes, the air of regret...and the packing.