I’d been hearing the “d” word for months, but it always had a “pre” before it. You’ve got to admit that with a precursor like “pre” to cushion it, deployment doesn’t sound so bad.

Pre-deployment.

Pre-deployment.

See what I mean? Take that accented prefix away, though, and the word definitely has a different meaning. Yes, sir, and that meaning is enough to suck the air clear out of a mom’s lungs. I know this because I am barely breathing. “Pre” has been snatched from our family’s vocabulary, and the “d” word is here to stay. The good part of the story, however, is that for several days there was another term closely associated with the “pre” and the “d”: leave.

For our favorite Marine, pre-deployment leave meant fishing, playing tennis, riding four-wheelers and getting slung around on a tube in Lake Lincoln. It also meant speaking at a meeting of Wesson’s American Legion and at a church fellowship, visiting old mowing customers and thanking friends who grilled him pork tenderloin.

And then there was getting to experience first-hand how kind Brookhaven is to uniforms.

While he was dressed for recruiting duties, strangers would stop him on the sidewalk to shake his hand and thank him for his service. Parents made sure their kids “met the military guy”. Pappas Pizza gave him the royal treatment.

For sure, pre-d has its perks, and for us non-enlisteds it was primarily in the form of family time – both quantity and quality. It caused Son No. 1 and his family to make the trip down two weekends in a row, and enabled the Marine to talk Asian culture with his Chinese aunt, who was here for a week, too.

What I didn’t expect, though, was the pick-up softball games with a slew of friends. By the end of my third night spectating at such an event, I could almost remember what it used to be like years ago watching each of my sons play at the same field, back when I could watch them without feeling as if I had to photograph every play. But here they were – along with a son-in-law and my husband – hitting and running and throwing like they’d never stopped. How could I not take. just. one. more?

After all, who knew when we’d be together again?

(Stop thinking that, I told myself.)

But you can’t, so I pulled out the Pilgrim candles and the dressing recipe, while my father-in-law conducted a fruitless search for frozen turkeys. He finally managed to smoke two breasts, and we had Thanksgiving on a fine Sunday afternoon in July.

The Marine will miss Christmas, though, as well as the impending births of a niece, a nephew, and one that will be a surprise. But who can think of such things when there are tedious details to work through, like selling his truck and suspending his phone service?

So I bought the bagels he likes (they’re still in the fridge) and insisted on a new family photo. And one afternoon when his leave was almost up, the Marine and I sat on the front porch for a long time and just watched it rain. As we rocked, I considered mentioning the gnawed spot on my arm rest, courtesy of his now-gone golden retriever. I am glad I thought better of it. Instead, we talked of someone from his unit who had gotten engaged while on leave and dates I needed for his scrapbook. The Marine reminded me (again) that he is not going to a “hot spot”. I reminded him that everywhere is a hot spot these days.

“Pack that picture of the family we took?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Notice I laminated it?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thanks.”

And the next day, when my husband and I and a smattering of siblings stood at one end of Jackson International and our favorite Marine stood at the other, I could almost hear country singer Trace Adkins paying homage to Leathernecks, Devil Dogs and Jarheads in that hit he had:

“I sleep in my bed instead of a fox hole.

I’ve never heard my boss tell me to lock and load.

Ain’t no bullet holes in the side of my SUV,

‘Cause the kid next door just shipped out overseas.”

Pray for Charlie Battery, will you?

Wesson resident Kim Henderson is a freelance writer who writes for The Daily Leader. Contact her at kimhenderson319@gmail.com.