7
JILLIE
When nighttime comes, so do the incessant thoughts, the pictures in my head of my father being blown to pieces. I can’t seem to shut my mind off.
It’s hard to face the truth that Colonel Ezra Fox really is dead. Father, husband, uncle, brother, son, friend... Marine who dedicated his life to fighting for this country. How did he get paid back? IEDs and idiotic suicide bombers who hadn’t been detected by the intel and caught the caravan off-guard taking the lives of three Marines, injuring four more—according to the last information passed to me. At least they didn’t all die as they originally thought.
But still. War. Senseless, stupid war. A war my father has been a part of for far too long. At least now he’s at peace and no longer fighting an unwinnable battle.
I don’t know what to do with myself, so I do the only thing that brings me peace: I crawl into my dad’s bed in his room. It’d been made up with military precision—not anymore. It didn’t smell like him, so I took some of his cologne and spritzed it over the bed. Now, it smells like him.
I’m wearing one of his old t-shirts that’s too worn out for him to wear in uniform anymore. The cotton is comforting as is his scent but not as comforting as his arms would be.
I need to give the eulogy. I don’t want to, I just know it’s something I need to do for my dad. I feel like no one would get it right, they wouldn’t cover everything he was.
It’s the past tense—was—that has tears welling again. Everyone’s worried about me, but they don’t need to be. I just need to be alone to be able to adjust, to comprehend the true nature of what my dad being gone means. I haven’t reached the “acceptance” stage yet, but I have passed “denial”—some of the “anger” is lingering. I think the anger will always be there.
The five stages of grief come to mind. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.
I suppose this is the “depression” stage. Next will be “bargaining.” I don’t know that I have anything to bargain with. I would definitely trade my life for my dad’s, but then he’d be the one facing the pain. I suppose it’s worse when a parent loses a child and I wouldn’t ever want to do that to him.
I miss him so much. He called as often as he could which was infrequent, but it was every chance he got. The ache in my heart isn’t easing at all. Will it ever?
I let out a sigh. Aunt Leah’s been hovering. I know why. The Will and what it could mean for her and her family. The reading won’t be done until after the—dear God in Heaven—after the burial. Muttering that word horrifies me. Will there even be a body? Will they bring me his dog tags? I’d cherish them, wear them, honor them and him.
I know Dad would have left me the choice of where to live and I know where I want to go. I just have a lot of things to deal with before I can manage that choice.
I drift off to sleep with the sound of the tree branches hitting the roof of the house. Dad hasn’t been around to maintain. I’ll mention it to Eddie in the morning.
