He spent the last three years away from home, making the rare visit as he could.  However, in those three years he never got the chance to be home for Christmas.  He remembered the smell of the Christmas Tree his mom use to get.  Remembered how they decorated it with the old yet treasured ornaments.  He use to play the piano as he, his mother, and his siblings sang Christmas carols.  And then he enlisted in the military.

Every year Christmas rolled around, and every year he was required to be on post and could not take leave to return home.  The first year he was in military training and could not leave.  The second, he was the lowest ranking and ordered to be on shift for the holidays.  For the third, he exchanged shifts with his friend so his friend could go get married.  But this year was going to be different.  His mother had made him promise he’d be home for Christmas, and he readily agreed.  However, his country asked for his services.  In the months before December, a Deployment notice came down and he was swept into it.  He had to make the call to his parents and siblings that he would be spending the Christmas season in Iraq.

His bags packed, he deployed to defend his country and his family.  He spent days before the holidays guarding his base in the grueling heat under the sun, and bone-chilling cold in the hours of night.  The sand was a far cry from the glistening snow he was use to this time of year.  He wrote letters home as he could; making the occasional phone call he was permitted.  But this Christmas season, he would be with his rifle, his comrades, and his memories.  I’ll be home for Christmas.  He had remembered promising.  His unit wouldn’t return until late March.  Once again, Christmas was one of his sacrifices to serve his country.  One he didn’t regret to make, but one he sometimes wished didn’t have too.

One week before Christmas a knock was heard at the door.  His mother went to answer it, and upon opening it, saw the last visitors she ever wanted to see.  Two solemn-faced men standing in uniform faced her and her heart stopped.  They informed her that her son had been killed by terrorists, defending a comrade who was injured by a roadside bomb.  He handed her an envelope.  It was addressed to her but dark stains covered most of it.  She shaking opened it and read the all too familiar handwriting of her lost son.

Dear mom.
Remember that song I use to play and we all would sing? “I’ll be Home for Christmas”? I never knew the meaning of it until recently.

“I’ll be home for Christmas, you can count on me.  Please have snow and mistletoe, and presents on the tree.  Christmas Eve will find me, where the love-light gleans.  I’ll be home for Christmas.  If only in my dreams”

It makes too much sense to me now.  Although I wish I wasn’t half a world away, I will never regret my decision.  Mom, I love you.  Let Dad and my brothers and sisters know that I love them too.  I think about all of you and wish I could be in your arms, to hear those two wonderful words from you.  “Welcome home”.  I would give anything to hear them.  But it is my duty and honor to be here.

I’ll be home for Christmas Mom, if only in my dreams.

Her tears mingled with the dried blood on the letter.  He had had it with him when he was killed.  The two men left her in the arms of her husband as they wept.  But their son was true to his word.  Christmas Eve, his casket, draped by the very flag he died to protect, arrived home.  He was buried in the National Cemetery with a full joint service Military Honors that day.  His flag was folded, crisp and clean.  Twenty one shots reverberated in the empty cemetery.  The haunting melody of Echo Taps cried mournfully to the overcast sky.  The mother received the flag, and her son got a last mournful salute.  She cradled the flag to her chest, weeping silently over it.

“Welcome home.” She whispered.