prepared.

I walked into our bedroom and the bags were packed. Suitcases bulging with t-shirts and socks covered the bed, and trash bags filled with old clothes lined the wall, waiting for their trip to Goodwill.

I burst into tears. Heavy sobs and an intense panic took over my body: what will I do now?

My husband is not leaving me. In fact, I knew that today, while I was at work, he was at home packing, preparing for our trip tomorrow from Nashville to Boston. His new job starts on Monday, and so he is going first, to settle back in, to find us an apartment, to prepare for my arrival a month later. We joked about how the time would fly, how we would Skype everyday as we did during our engagement, half of which we spent in different states. I know I will be fine, and I know this is the most practical way to move, and I know that in one month, when we are reunited, it will seem that no time has passed at all.

But that didn't make the sight of packed suitcases any easier to bear.

I thought of women who come home to find their rooms cleaned out, their husbands gone. Husbands who get a phone call simply stating, "I'm not coming home." I have to imagine that, shocking as it might have seemed at the time, these ruined relationships showed signs of decay. Signs that might have warned him or her that things weren't quite right. That they should be careful. That they should prepare.

I thought of military spouses who say goodbye for months at a time, refusing to think about the dangers that lie ahead. They knew when they married into the military that they'd spend long periods of time alone. They try to prepare themselves as best they can.

Preparedness is a little misleading, though. It only means that you've pre-planned an exit strategy, or a temporary fix. You might be prepared enough to bring extra water on a hiking trip, but that won't stop the overwhelming panic when you find yourself lost in the middle of the woods. You might prepare by wearing a life preserver on a boat, but that won't stop your hands from shaking as you bob in the water, unsure of what's below.

I suppose there are some things that we can only try to prepare for; in reality, our brains and emotional cores won't fully respond - won't know the depths of panic or ache or fear - until the moment has arrived, until the suitcases appear and the closet is empty. And in that moment, no amount of extra water will quench the thirst.

Tomorrow we leave. Tonight I'll pack my own smaller bag, for the overnight in DC and the overnight in Boston before I fly back Sunday night. I've made that flight before, the one where my eyes are puffy and red and I don't want anyone to talk to me, ask me how I am, or sit next to me. The flight where I curse the isolating altitude that I usually love, because for those two hours what I really want is to call my sisters.

I'll take a cab back to the house, I'll waste time on the computer and call my husband and assure him I am fine. I'll sleep alone, as I knew I would, but it won't make the bed any less cold.