Just Get Used to It
You’ll get used to quick kisses at the screen door—the door that swings with the swing shifts, the door that shuts you inside. “Be safe,” you whisper compulsively. You’ll get used to seeing him asleep more than you see him awake. You’ll see him sprawled on the living room floor at six a.m., the theme song from Cops blaring from the television screen or the unmistakable voice of Unsolved Mysteries. He solves cold cases in his dreams. He can fall dead asleep to the sound of sirens. You’ll get used to camping out on a hand-me-down couch because you don’t want to sleep in a bed alone.
You’ll get used to the ten codes, the radio static. And right as you’re spooning up gravy and taking up a sizzling piece of fried chicken, and right as he lifts a piece of buttery corn on the cob to his mouth, he’ll get called to a domestic disturbance a few towns over. And you’ll be left with all your own desperate attempts of domesticity. You’ll get used to throwing out cold supper to the dogs.
“How was your night?” you’ll ask him. You’ll get used to his answers. He pulled his gun on a gang. He saw a dead man, saw his insides, saw his brain, saw his skull. He chased a criminal several miles through the woods. He busted drugs. Blood splattered on his uniform. Can you get the spot out? You’ll get used to it.
You’ll get so used to the gadgets and gear that you’ll forget most people don’t have loaded guns in every room or a bulletproof vest plopped in the corner and the contents of the duty belt strewn across the floor. You’ll get used to seeing him in the crisp pressed pants and the buttoned shirt with the badge. You’ll get used to the whispers in public and the stares and the mix of tension and respect he gets when you walk with him into a room. You’ll get used to a persona that’s always on duty even when he’s not in uniform.
You’ll get used to pulling into your driveway and sitting for too long in your car because you don’t want to go inside to another empty night in an empty house.
You’ll get used to going to church without his hand to hold. You’ll see the old man in the pew in front of you place his hand on his wife’s back, rub his thumb across her shoulder. You’ll swallow tears and hold up palms to God because you’re too choked to sing the benediction. “God,” you’ll say, realizing you don’t have to pretend. “God, I’m not used to any of it.”