Shorttiming

Going home soon.  There is not much time left for me in this accursed country, but the hands of the clock have slowed; they are my never boiling watched pot.  When your tour is measured in weeks or days, you can realistically cross days out on the calendar without worrying of running out of ink.  This doesn't make sense to me as I will just spend more time staring at the calendar.

My children may not be stopped from this, but they are weary of the weight of our separation, and the younger ones have started to wonder if I am every returning.  School has been out, but my wife has maintained a routine, for her own sanity, and their benefit.  Surely, they remain occupied for most of their day.  Perhaps my arrival home will be noted with a shrug, or less, by my sons, who have lived without me for longer than they can remember.  I hope and believe that this will not be the case.

The crews here have changed over.  Those who saw me come in, and showed me the ropes have returned home.  I talk of February and rain here, and the those newly deposited into this stink are disbelieveing, as if they are things of another epoch.  Strangely, the contractors from the sub-continent, while always polite and professional, have lately started to afford a familiarity of mutual respect.  They don't check my ID at the gate when they see my face; I am served my usual breakfast off the buffet by issuing a smile and without uttering a word; they even bring me curry sometimes to my office.

Let the outprocessing scavenger hunt begin...  ...oh, gladly.   More on this later.