END OF THE SEASON

sunset on the beach, originally uploaded by I, Puzzled.

The other night, we had our traditional end of the season party at work. Though I don't show up on the job anymore, I was there for the party. My friends loved pointing that out.

But the truth is I'm the kind of person who has to be dragged to a party--and then, once I start talking and laughing and drinking my beer, I'm the last to leave.

"What--so early? We were just getting started here... " I say as the door slams behind me.

The other night was no exception. I'd agreed to my friend's cajoling on one condition: we would stay no longer than an hour. A quick drink, something to eat, and we'd be out of there.

A sneaky little smile appeared on her face as she promised we'd be home before nine. Friends who know you better than you know yourself can be so annoying.

Anyway, it was great to be with my co-workers, to see them in their jeans, looking unharried by crazy kitchen stuff, beer in hand. The theatrically lit sea behind us felt like a visceral reminder of the great drama that underlies the most ordinary lives. Lives like ours, for instance.

When I first started working there, a boy of about fifteen washed dishes after school. Michael. He was quiet and polite, and in the five years, we worked together, I only penetrated that reserved exterior a few times.

A couple of years ago, he brought his younger brother in for a job. And shortly thereafter, Michael appeared in the kitchen in a Navy uniform. He looked proud and happy.

There was nothing for him on Cape Cod, he said. He was going to get a skill and begin a real career. Somewhat trepidatiously, we wished him well.

"At least, he won't be sent to Iraq," we said after he left.

I loved the younger brother from the start. He slouched perpetually, as if to deny the lanky truth of who he was becoming, and turned crimson if you said so much as hello to him.

When people gathered in the "break area," which consists of a picnic table by the dumpster, the younger brother was always standing at the periphery, looking uncomfortable.

His was a stance, a way of being in the world, that I understood all too well. I would always go over and try to pull him into the conversation. When he reddened and fled, I understood that too.

By this year, however, the younger brother had taken possession of both himself and who he was in the work place. He joked. He initiated conversations. He loved to give hugs.

It was great to see him the other night on the dance floor, flailing his arms and legs wildly in flagrant celebration of the cliche "white men can't dance" .

When I ran into him near the bar, he gave me one of his famous hugs.

"Thanks for being so friendly to me when I first came here," he said. "My first couple of weeks, you were the only one who talked to me."

I asked him if he'd seen the "free hugs" video, and told me it always made me think of him. He hadn't, but promised to check it out.

Then the talk drifted to the subject of his brother. By then, we all knew that enlisting in the Navy was no protection from being sent to Iraq.

Michael is now in his second tour. People at work have written to him regularly, sending him goofy pictures of the antics that go on in the kitchen, cartons of Cape Cod Potato Chips, and socks. He always seems to need socks.

"We haven't heard from him in over a month," the brother said. "We don't even know where he is."

"Your parents must be so worried," the mother in me blurted out. It was probably the wrong thing to say.

The younger brother's eyes changed, but he didn't look away. "It's all they think about. Really, it's all any of us think about."

Then he hugged me again. But this time the hug felt different. This time I could feel the anxiety that this high school senior lives with every day.

It was still with me when the party ended. Sometimes the war in Iraq is not what you hear about in the news, not a bumper sticker sentiment, not a political sound bite. It's one kid, who hasn't been heard from in a month. One worried family.