I'm at Home in Your Heart
I Always Knew December Was Chilly
I still remember the brusque chill that chilled my bones that December day. It wasn’t just the temperature that chilled me as I ran out to the curb to pick up my newspaper; it was the headline of the front of that newspaper that was cold. “Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton Ambushed” was written there, plain as day, in bold, blue writing. The first step is denial and the instant I read that my husband’s base had been ambushed, I told myself that he was okay and that he wasn’t one of the men hurt.
My solid proof that my husband had been killed was given to me around 8 pm the same night that I had read that terrible headline. The doorbell rang and I hesitated for a second, but forced myself to jump up out of my chair to answer the door. I opened the door to see two Marines standing on my doorstep, looking at me with a stern look. To love a marine is to know one, so I knew by looking into their eyes that they felt a strong sorrow for me.
“Ma’am, I’m afraid we have some bad news that we have to deliver to you tonight. I’m sure you’ve heard about your husband’s base being ambushed; we regret to inform you that your husband was indeed killed in the incident,” the younger-looking of the two officers said.
At that moment in time, I found not the words to speak, but only the sounds to express my pain. I whined and made an audible wince at the news, looking for an escape from this terrible nightmare.
“Miss, I know this is going to be a hard December for you, but we had to look in each of the barracks to check for dead and when we looked in your husband’s barrack, we found this,” the older officer spoke to me, handing me a letter. “I’m sorry that this hard time has hit you so close to Christmas. That letter was dated from the day he died and we thought that he would have wanted you to read it still. We’re terribly sorry to have stirred up your evening with this news, ma’am, but we must be on our way.”
“Thanks for this,” I said as I held the letter close to my heart and closed the door on them. I couldn’t move over to the couch to sit down, so instead I just slid my back against the door, falling to the ground. Right there, in that instant behind the door, I had a mental breakdown. I was crying and flailing my arms in an uproar.
Once I gained the strength to pick myself up off the ground, I threw the letter into the fireplace, angry with the world for taking away the one thing that meant so much to me. I figured that the next time I started a fire in the fireplace I would be burning the last of these tragic memories. I knew somewhere in my heart that my husband would have wanted me to read it, but I couldn’t put that kind of pain back into my heart.
My solid proof that my husband had been killed was given to me around 8 pm the same night that I had read that terrible headline. The doorbell rang and I hesitated for a second, but forced myself to jump up out of my chair to answer the door. I opened the door to see two Marines standing on my doorstep, looking at me with a stern look. To love a marine is to know one, so I knew by looking into their eyes that they felt a strong sorrow for me.
“Ma’am, I’m afraid we have some bad news that we have to deliver to you tonight. I’m sure you’ve heard about your husband’s base being ambushed; we regret to inform you that your husband was indeed killed in the incident,” the younger-looking of the two officers said.
At that moment in time, I found not the words to speak, but only the sounds to express my pain. I whined and made an audible wince at the news, looking for an escape from this terrible nightmare.
“Miss, I know this is going to be a hard December for you, but we had to look in each of the barracks to check for dead and when we looked in your husband’s barrack, we found this,” the older officer spoke to me, handing me a letter. “I’m sorry that this hard time has hit you so close to Christmas. That letter was dated from the day he died and we thought that he would have wanted you to read it still. We’re terribly sorry to have stirred up your evening with this news, ma’am, but we must be on our way.”
“Thanks for this,” I said as I held the letter close to my heart and closed the door on them. I couldn’t move over to the couch to sit down, so instead I just slid my back against the door, falling to the ground. Right there, in that instant behind the door, I had a mental breakdown. I was crying and flailing my arms in an uproar.
Once I gained the strength to pick myself up off the ground, I threw the letter into the fireplace, angry with the world for taking away the one thing that meant so much to me. I figured that the next time I started a fire in the fireplace I would be burning the last of these tragic memories. I knew somewhere in my heart that my husband would have wanted me to read it, but I couldn’t put that kind of pain back into my heart.