A few weeks ago my son and I were in the departure area at Bangor International Airport waiting for our delayed plane to leave. A soldier in full uniform was standing by the glass barrier to be near the man who was seeing her off. They could not talk because airport security had decided the man – a husband or brother, the different kinds of love can’t be told apart at such moments – was not allowed in the waiting area with her.

From time to time they touched the palms of their hands together on the glass. She would smile bravely, then tears would well into her eyes and she’d wipe her cheek with her fingertips.

Soon we all got on our plane, but then we got off again because of a computer malfunction. Back in the terminal, we sat down to wait. The soldier, now alone, was visibly distraught, holding her face in her hands, nervously making cell phone calls, and obviously using every ounce of her inner strength to hold herself together.

She did well. During some shuffling around of passengers she told me she was at the end of a two-week leave from Iraq. She was on her way back to Mosul. She did not want to go, though she bravely did not say so outright. Her job was food service.

When dozens of American soldiers were killed and injured in that explosion in the mess tent in Mosul, I was filled with fear for her. I hope she is OK. For the life of me, I cannot understand why this suffering should be visited on her, or her family. No one in Iraq is a danger to anyone in Maine. I think the wool has been pulled so far down over our eyes that the gray fibers can’t be told apart from the red of a flag, or of a map, or of our own blood. I wish she and the rest of them would be brought back from that hell.

I never learned her name. In the airport her anxiety and sorrow tore me apart. Now I fear for her life. I hope she is OK. I hope she is OK.

Dana Wilde is a Copy Desk editor with the Bangor Daily News.