text: I made the mistake of turning on the radio half-way to my house, and our buffoon of a president's voice comes through my car, calling himself a wartime president. I snort and turn it up, reminded that while his words are not of much value, they do hold an entertainment value. I listen to him stumble around his words, three adjectives to every noun, his speaking in circles as I put my car in park, shake my head, then shut off my car. I haul my groceries from the backseat and up the stairs to my apartment, recalling something I read, or heard or learned in some way about war. I set the bags down in the kitchen and think of President Trump and his choice of words, and wonder how perturbed he would be to learn what I learned in that article, that Ted Talk, that podcast, whatever it was: women are one of the most valuable commodities when a country faces war. I put produce in the sink and wipe down boxes and store them in cupboards. I think about how we sing to the unsung heroes in a time like this: the medical professionals [and novices, even] summoned to the front lines... the mail carriers, the delivery drivers, those manning grocery stores, and wonder if the women facing war have ever been properly sung to. I reflect on the message from the podcast I heard some time ago, how it spoke of Afghanistan, about how the women were really the ones who held things together throughout war. The unsung heroes, the mothers, the daughters, the wives, the women -- the ones who bear all or none of these titles. They are not the warriors we think they are when we think of war. They are not toting guns, loudly and shouting at the enemy. They are the schoolteachers giving lectures on their country's history while it's future is in immediate question and uncertainty. They are the ones who pause their lessons until the sounds of guns stop, until the helicopters pass, holding their breaths as bombs go off closer and closer each time, the ones writing lessons in the spaces of a chalkboard not overtaken by bullet holes. They are the mothers who still make their child's family's favorite dish even if all the ingredients are not available. They are the ones working in a sparse kitchen, who cannot look out a window and smile while their children play, but cast out nervous glances every ten seconds, shivering and shaking in fear while they set a table. They are the ones who are in a constant war with themselves, living with the internal, unforgiving debate of letting them enjoy what may be their last days, out in the sunshine, or demanding their children stay inside where they are safe. They are the mothers who accept gravely that nowhere is safe because she doesn't have another option she can accept, so she comes to terms with the fact that outside they can stay. They are the wives who remember the holidays when everyone is too preoccupied with the current state of the nation, make new traditions if the old ones are available or unable to attain. They are the ones who remember that on Sundays, the family eats together, and there is still sanctity in the beginning of a new week, no matter what platter that week serves to others. They are the wives who bandage the hands of their husbands when they come home, spoon feed him soup after days or not eating. They are the ones bookmarking a sense of normalcy that is easy to turn to when you do not understand the chapters that come after. They are the ones who ensure routine is in place, from the big things like prayer to the little things like brushing teeth. The one that tucks her children into bed and turns down the lights so that they cannot see the tears in her eyes as she tells them a bedtime story they can believe. She is the one who, when the bombs go off illuminating the dark speaks of lightning, and when the sound vibrates through their bodies speaks of thunder. When her children ask where it comes from, she says the gods are battling over who can create the biggest storm, because she knows somehow that is less terrifying than man fighting man. When they ask her what the gods names are she wants to tell them she doesn't know anymore, but instead kisses their heads and tells them they will find out one day, silently praying not tomorrow. She is the one who gets up and gives one last tuck of torn blankets over tiny feet. The one holding in place all the little things: the fringe and the fabric of all that remains.