Mile by mile we pass fewer trees and more tumbleweeds as the trusty Dodge truck treks further and further west. Finally we reach our town and turn left on Wyoming, the last street before our new home on an old military base. I looked wide-eyed at the barren landscape, this street absent of green all together.
I cried down that whole street right up ’til the base entrance check point. Then I cried again when I saw our house with cinderblock walls and a front yard of dirt.
“Don’t worry,” my husband reassured. “This is only our temporary home ’til one opens up in base housing.”
“Will our real house have dirt for a front yard?” I squeaked.
“I don’t know,” he replied with a sigh. “We’ll have to wait and see.”
I was a newish military wife who still didn’t know how to start over every three years. I wanted to bloom where planted, but how does one bloom in the desert? In a dirt yard?