Requiem for a Soldier (Requiem #1)

Chapter 38: Favorite Things

October 1st

Ryan

I sit alone on the riverbank, watching the current sweep briskly past, pulling my fishing line along with it. The bright sunlight sparkles off the little crests and troughs of ripples in the water's surface. A light breeze teases the weeds at the edge of the riverbank and leaves in the trees of the forest beyond. Melodic strains of birdsong, sounds of the forest, and the water rushing quietly by all blend together into the soothing rhythm of peace.

I've done this more times than I can count, spending hours and hours sitting by this river, reveling in the vastness of this place and the absolute solitude. The peace and stillness out here used to be my refuge. But at some point, that changed. Now it feels different. Something is missing.

I'm not exactly certain when I started realizing I felt this way. I'd always felt a certain pang of despair anytime I'd caught myself thinking about Saph. That usually alternated between hatred for the narcissistic woman and in my weaker moments, desperate wishing that she'd agreed to come away with me after Afghanistan. But in the last few months, something else has sprouted up like a weed in Ana's beloved vegetable garden. During the times when I'm with Ana, laughing and talking, I feel full. I feel complete again, like I'd never been struck with the gaping losses of family, friends, and a fiancee. In the moments when I'm alone, I feel an aching emptiness inside my chest. I find myself daydreaming about her - her smile, the light in her eyes, the way she makes me feel, the joy she brings even though I've touched the darkness she carries inside her.

What's even worse is that sometimes, these feelings of longing and loneliness infiltrate our moments together. It doesn't make sense, I shouldn't feel lonely or like something's missing when Ana's sitting right next to me. But still, I want something more. And I can't quite put my finger on what's wrong.

I'm startled out of my introspection by an excitable fluffy white dog. Casper is six months old now, more closely resembling the picture of the full-grown dog on the cover of Your Samoyed and You than the puppy he was when we got him. He pants happily, looking at me with that classic Samoyed smile I've come to expect from him.

"Where did you come from, boy?" I ask him, giving his head a rub. I can feel my heart leap when I realize Ana must have brought him. I look back to the forest behind me, but I don't see any sign of her. My heart sinks.

The dog can tell my attention has been pulled away from him and he fights to regain it, nuzzling his head under my arm and reaching up to lick my face.

"Alright, alright," I tell him and commence rubbing his head again. His joyful panting continues and his white flag of a tail waves in the air. In a few moments, he's down on the ground, lying on his back and closing his eyes while I rub his belly. "Spoiled dog," I say. How did this fifty-pound animal become a lapdog?

A tell-tale crashing in the forest behind me causes my heart to lurch again. That's definitely Ana. I tried to teach her how to walk quietly through the woods and she seems to pointedly ignore it. Maybe I should tell her the sound will attract bears.

"There you are, Casper. You shouldn't run away like that. Bad dog."

Casper is too busy enjoying his belly-rub to notice the rebuke.

I don't turn around at the sound of her voice, though I want to. I may be eager to see her, but I don't want her to know that. I'm frustrated with myself for how much I've allowed her to affect me. I keep staring at the river, though not really seeing it. All my attention is focused on sensing the activity going on outside of my range of view.

I hear the sound of a blanket being unfurled and spread across the ground nearby. Ana places items at each corner. Next to me is the pack we use to carry food. Has she brought a picnic?