Unilock Angst

The day John left for his first tour of Afghanistan was perhaps one of the hardest I've ever lived through, but it was nothing compared to the night that followed: long and sleepless, a relentless and unyielding hollow ache in my chest. The cold isolation of the flat only made the image of John working out in the baking heat of a foreign warzone all the more distant.

I have always taken pride in my perception, well accustomed to cateloguing a muddle of sensory input, my observations. Perhaps that is why I was so drawn to the tactile and olfactory comforts of John's clothing, but the familiar textures and scents only succeeded in drawing forth a fresh bout of tears. To this day, I cannot know for certain how long I sat there in the dark, clinging to his jumper, thinking only of him and my pain.