Before the war, you’ll name your boys after presidents: Theodore, William, Franklin. You’ll dress them up in matching blue. Buy them toy soldiers. Teach them to stand at attention.
During the war, your husband will write letters. He’ll call you his darling. His It girl. His strawberry blonde. And you will smile in the mirror like Rita Hayworth. Swing your dress like Ginger Rogers. Side-sweep your hair like Lauren Bacall.
After the war, your husband will call you by your given name. He’ll call the boys slackers, calves, and cupcakes. Cover his ears to drown out the pops. Muzzle his memories. Squeeze magic bullets inside his palms. Tighter. Tighter. Until they pierce skin.
After the war, Avon will stop calling. You will tie your apron like you tie your hair. Tight. And unforgiving. And the boys will dogfight for their father’s attention. And you will put them outside. Rub your husband’s shoulders when he bangs on the table. Let go when he takes the Sunday paper to bed.
Before the next war, the boys will bring home girls. Hot girls: Barbie, Candy, Missy. And your eyes will ice over when your husband calls them pretty. Pretty silly, like their names, is what you’ll think but will not say.
During another war, the boys will leave home. Protest a president. They will go with shorter names: Ted, Bill, Frank. You’ll remember when you wanted to change yours: Rita, Ginger, Lauren. You will command your husband to put down the paper. And the boys will shake his hand. And they will hug you goodbye. And you will hold them in your arms. Tighter. Tighter. Until they let go.
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