Why I Asked My Wife to Send Me Dirt
When I told my wife what I wanted her to send me, she laughed. Most soldiers overseas asked for snacks, socks, or letters. I asked for dirt. Real soil from home, a bit of fertilizer, and a packet of grass seed.
Out there in the harsh desert, where everything felt dry and far away, I missed the feeling of something green under my feet. I missed the smell of fresh-cut grass. It wasn’t just homesickness—it was something deeper. A need to feel grounded.
It took her weeks to figure it out—postal rules, customs, and all the complications. But eventually, the box came. My unit gave me a hard time at first. “You planting a farm out here?” someone joked. I didn’t mind. I found a little square of dirt, added the soil, planted the seeds, and waited.
When the first stubborn blades of grass appeared, everything changed.
The teasing stopped. Slowly, one by one, the guys started standing on it before missions. Barefoot. Quiet. It reminded one of his grandmother’s backyard. Another swore it brought him luck. We didn’t talk much about why it mattered—but it did.
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