My heels clicked on the wood floor, the skirt of my dress swished as I walked forward. I paused sucking in one deep breath in a small effort to compose myself, holding back tears by sheer willpower. I forced myself to take another step feeling as though my knees would buckle under me. Nothing in my life had ever made me feel this way, it’s not who I am. I didn’t cry or get nervous on my wedding day; I made it through child birth with minimal screaming; and I was able to deal with the man I loved being away for six months at a time while being in constant danger, never allowing my deepest fear to surface, and now it had been realized.
I was moving forward through a crowd of sympathetic mourners who didn’t truly understand how I felt in an effort to find the only thing that mattered to me now. My son, only three years old, was being held by my mother his head resting on her shoulder. He looked so much like his father that it hurt. I swallowed back my tears and held out my arms for him. He came to me wordlessly laying his head on my chest. My mother gave me a small, sad smile before taking my father’s arm and walking away with eyes red from her tears.
People silently filed into the small sanctuary in the church. I waited a few moments mustering up the courage I needed to face everyone. With a shaky breath and a hug from my boy I began walking. I stood at the end of the aisle focusing on the casket sitting at the end of the aisle. I walked forward not noticing anything other than the body in the casket. I stopped in front of the casket looking at his face. He was dressed in his dress blues, like he had wanted and looked as though he was asleep . . . not gone from this world.
It was then that I noticed that hot tears were streaming from my eyes. I placed a picture, of the day our son was born under his hands on his chest, so we would always be close to his heart. I then took my place in the front pew as the minister began talking. He talked about his achievements and his service in the military and about our son and me and how twenty-six was too young to die.
I had to agree. My time with him had been too short and now my son would grow up without his father. My husband had served his country, been in the line of fire and that had not killed him. No my husband’s death came at the hands of a drunk driver.