Hamouch

At the Dallas airport, on the way to Iowa, I met a soldier. His name was on a name plate on his chest. Hamoush. He was in his mid-twenties. He was going to Cedar Rapids; so was I. He had just completed a year's tour in Afghanistan and Iraq. He was going home to spend a Christmas night and another week or so with Mom and Dad. Although I was headed to Iowa to do politics, it seemed irrelevant. I thanked him for his service to the country. Embarrassed, he made a gesture that 'it was nothing'. He sat down next to me, talked about what Mon was cooking for Christmas dinner, and how eager he was to see some of his buddies back home. He said he couldn't wait to get back, though; to be with his soldier buddies. It would "kill him if something happened to them while I was away". After a few minutes, it was time to board the little commuter plane that was to take us to Iowa. We climbed the steps from the tarmac. I said: "Thanks again. And Merry Christmas." He nodded. He sat a few seats ahead of me, across the aisle. His presence filled the whole plane.