Sequel: Of You ›
War Hero
1/1
A boy I knew was buried today.
He was my age and lived down the block from me.
I watched them carry his casket into the hearse, his mother crying behind the pallbearers. There were people lining the street that the hearse would pass; people who had known him, people who had known of him. They held flowers and candles in their hands, heads bowed. I watched as the hearse rounded the corner and disappeared into the city. I watched until I couldn’t see it any more.
Mama sat on her rocking chair in front of the window, expressionless and still. I wondered briefly if she would mourn my death like that boy’s mother had mourned his, and tried not to be so upset by the fact that she probably wouldn’t. The accident had left very little of my mother behind, and even then, not enough. She was a shell now, empty and broken.
Still though, I stood and walked over to where she sat. Wrapping my arms around her stiff shoulders, I pulled her closer and buried my nose into her dark hair. She smelled of lavender and rose petals. The thought of that boy’s death upset me.
I had known him, spoken to him, laughed with him. We hadn’t been close friends but I had known him. He’d had a name – Harry, and a sister, Ingrid. We had gone to the same middle school, and shared a class in high school. Harry had been a kind, gentle giant and a quick mind. Harry had just been a child; barely twenty, barely living. The realization made me uneasy.
At nineteen years, you tend to think that you’re invisible to many things – death included. What had just happened proved that that wasn’t right. The tears that moistened my cheeks surprised me and blinking quickly, I gave my mother a soft kiss before pulling away. She didn’t even blink.
Crossing the room as quietly as possible, I picked my bags up off of the floor and reached for the doorknob. Ellis, my mother’s carer, waved at me from the adjoining living room. She was organizing some medicine bottles into a bag.
“Are you leaving now?” she whispered.
I could only nod.
Living with my mother after the accident had taught me the importance of the quiet. Any extreme and sudden sound would have her in screaming panic for days on end.
“God protect you.”
I nodded again and waved goodbye before I opened the door and stepped out into the street. The cool wind bit at my face like a sudden slap. I braced there for a few seconds, marvelling, for what I knew could be the last time, at the golden browns of autumn, the now bustling street before me and the people who seemed to recognize me.
“God speed, Hannah,” Mrs. Perkins sniffled from her front yard. Mr. Mathews, a retired war veteran, stood at attention and gave me a quick salute. I gave him one back.
“You come back home, you hear?” he yelled.
I tried to smile but couldn’t. All I could think of was Harry dying and how my mother was never going to know if I’d ever come back home again. She wasn’t even going to notice.
“Will do, sir,” I finally managed. My voice wasn’t as sure as I’d hoped it would be.
Not wanting to warrant any more farewells, I waved for the next taxi and got in. The driver was dark skinned. He wore a turban and had thick lips and squinted eyes. I noticed how those eyes widened when he saw me, what I was wearing, and how he gave me a small nod once he was done staring me down. I couldn’t tell whether the nod was in approval or disdain.
“Where to, miss?” His accent, I could tell, was Punjabi.
“Fort Raithwaite, please.”
He squinted at me. “Enlisting, miss?”
It took me a moment to respond. The image of the reddish brown wooden casket was still fresh on my mind. I tried to picture my mother sobbing behind it but couldn’t come up with a decent enough representation. I gave up soon after.
“Miss?” the driver prompted.
He had pulled away from the curb and was turning into Main Street. Half turning in my seat, I watched, much like I had watched the hearse just a few minutes before, the rectangular shaped windows of the house get smaller and smaller until I couldn’t see them any longer. My throat caught and I had to hold back a sob.
Looking at the man, I met his gaze on the rear view mirror.
“My first tour.”
And he said nothing more.
He was my age and lived down the block from me.
I watched them carry his casket into the hearse, his mother crying behind the pallbearers. There were people lining the street that the hearse would pass; people who had known him, people who had known of him. They held flowers and candles in their hands, heads bowed. I watched as the hearse rounded the corner and disappeared into the city. I watched until I couldn’t see it any more.
Mama sat on her rocking chair in front of the window, expressionless and still. I wondered briefly if she would mourn my death like that boy’s mother had mourned his, and tried not to be so upset by the fact that she probably wouldn’t. The accident had left very little of my mother behind, and even then, not enough. She was a shell now, empty and broken.
Still though, I stood and walked over to where she sat. Wrapping my arms around her stiff shoulders, I pulled her closer and buried my nose into her dark hair. She smelled of lavender and rose petals. The thought of that boy’s death upset me.
I had known him, spoken to him, laughed with him. We hadn’t been close friends but I had known him. He’d had a name – Harry, and a sister, Ingrid. We had gone to the same middle school, and shared a class in high school. Harry had been a kind, gentle giant and a quick mind. Harry had just been a child; barely twenty, barely living. The realization made me uneasy.
At nineteen years, you tend to think that you’re invisible to many things – death included. What had just happened proved that that wasn’t right. The tears that moistened my cheeks surprised me and blinking quickly, I gave my mother a soft kiss before pulling away. She didn’t even blink.
Crossing the room as quietly as possible, I picked my bags up off of the floor and reached for the doorknob. Ellis, my mother’s carer, waved at me from the adjoining living room. She was organizing some medicine bottles into a bag.
“Are you leaving now?” she whispered.
I could only nod.
Living with my mother after the accident had taught me the importance of the quiet. Any extreme and sudden sound would have her in screaming panic for days on end.
“God protect you.”
I nodded again and waved goodbye before I opened the door and stepped out into the street. The cool wind bit at my face like a sudden slap. I braced there for a few seconds, marvelling, for what I knew could be the last time, at the golden browns of autumn, the now bustling street before me and the people who seemed to recognize me.
“God speed, Hannah,” Mrs. Perkins sniffled from her front yard. Mr. Mathews, a retired war veteran, stood at attention and gave me a quick salute. I gave him one back.
“You come back home, you hear?” he yelled.
I tried to smile but couldn’t. All I could think of was Harry dying and how my mother was never going to know if I’d ever come back home again. She wasn’t even going to notice.
“Will do, sir,” I finally managed. My voice wasn’t as sure as I’d hoped it would be.
Not wanting to warrant any more farewells, I waved for the next taxi and got in. The driver was dark skinned. He wore a turban and had thick lips and squinted eyes. I noticed how those eyes widened when he saw me, what I was wearing, and how he gave me a small nod once he was done staring me down. I couldn’t tell whether the nod was in approval or disdain.
“Where to, miss?” His accent, I could tell, was Punjabi.
“Fort Raithwaite, please.”
He squinted at me. “Enlisting, miss?”
It took me a moment to respond. The image of the reddish brown wooden casket was still fresh on my mind. I tried to picture my mother sobbing behind it but couldn’t come up with a decent enough representation. I gave up soon after.
“Miss?” the driver prompted.
He had pulled away from the curb and was turning into Main Street. Half turning in my seat, I watched, much like I had watched the hearse just a few minutes before, the rectangular shaped windows of the house get smaller and smaller until I couldn’t see them any longer. My throat caught and I had to hold back a sob.
Looking at the man, I met his gaze on the rear view mirror.
“My first tour.”
And he said nothing more.