8
JILLIE
I’m still ignoring and avoiding any contact with my friends who came from Shell Beach. I just can’t talk to them yet. Not until I get through this. There’s no “viewing” as there’s no body. Just an empty casket adorned with a flag of the United States and a framed image of the Colonel decked out in his formal military uniform. I stood off to the side while this was set up, my heart in my throat, my grief choking me.
The funeral is outside on the farm. My father will rest next to my mother and his mother and father. When I die, I hope to slumber here with them.
There are a lot of Marines here along with the Chaplain. Some are part of the detail that go with the full military honors, those who stand at parade rest with their rifles, while others are just fellow men of the Corps.
They’re all decked out in their dress uniforms and are as stoic as I. No chit-chat. No laughing or smiles or grins. Just the cold, hard, grim reality their fellow Marine is gone. They’ll have to do this again with the others who’ve died.
I see them all looking at me with sympathy and pity. I don’t want either. What I see in my friends’ eyes is worry. I can accept that because if the situation were reversed, I’d be worried too.
Everyone’s wearing black—even Isla who normally loves pastels. I’m in black from head to toe. A black silk shirt with short puff sleeves that buttons down the front and cinches at the waist with a tie in the back, black dress pants that fit tightly at the ankle so I can wear my knee-high black boots with a square heel and chunky sole that adds an inch or two to my height. My hair is in a severe twist, tight so as to remember. My makeup dark around my eyes. I’ll try hard not to cry here. Not where the Marines can see. A daughter of Colonel Ezra Fox would be strong—and I am. For him. Because of him. But am I strong enough?
The Chaplain begins the ceremony, and, to me, it sounds like the teacher talking in a Charlie Brown cartoon. Just a muffled voice with, I imagine, nothing he hasn’t said a million times to others just like us. The family and friends. The mourners.
“Colonel Fox’s daughter Jillian would like to say a few words.”
I rub my hands on my pants—they’re sweating in that way they always do when I’m nervous or anxious. I make my way to where the Chaplain stands.
I put the paper back in my pocket. I don’t really need it. It just contains some things I didn’t want to forget to mention about my father, but I know them all by heart.
Many of you have come a long way. My father would be honored—is honored. I’m sure he’s looking down today on all of us hating that we’re mourning his death instead of celebrating his life. But grief doesn’t understand commands.
Colonel Ezra Fox was a wonderful father, husband, uncle, brother, friend, but most of all an exemplary Marine.
We’ll start with father since that’s what I know best.
When I was little, I lost my mother. I don’t remember very much about her other than she loved me and held me close a lot, gave me warm hugs and gentle kisses. She never raised her voice to me or her hand. That’s all I remember.
But my father remembered everything, and when she was killed, a part of him died with her. I admit he was different. He didn’t have that easy smile anymore. He didn’t laugh as loudly as he used to. His laugh lines now were joined with frown lines. Some days were a struggle for him to get out of bed, I’m sure, but there wasn’t a day I didn’t feel loved—even when he was at war fighting the Taliban or Al-Qaeda.
He celebrated the victories with me and bemoaned the losses in both our lives. You see, my father was a winner. Losing wasn’t in his nature. He’d fight the fight as hard as he could so he could be my champion—no matter what that battle entailed. Whether it be my breaking my arm when I was seven because I climbed a tree I shouldn’t have or when I got my heart broken for the very first time.
If he wasn’t there bodily, he was in spirit. He called as often as possible. I always understood if he couldn’t be here. He was out there fighting the battle—not just for me, but for you as well, this country, and even others. His heart had belonged to my mother until the day she died. It was then it became property of the United States Marine Corps.
He was a loving brother and uncle to his only sister Leah and her family. He made sure, even in the hardest of times, they never struggled. It wasn’t just me who he felt responsible for. No, not my dad. He felt responsible for his entire family, and he did a fine job at it.
His friends, well, I’m sure you know just how extraordinary he was. I’m sure you heard and felt it with his words, actions, and deeds. I can’t remember him ever saying he hated someone—unless it pertained to the enemy of the United States.
His fellow Marines, there are so many of you here today. Did they let you come back from over there for my dad?”I quip. They all chuckle and say no.“I, personally, think they should have. You in addition to the ones still over there are the ones know and knew without a doubt the depth of his courage, honor, and valor. He wore his uniform with pride.
“He’d been starting to gray a bit around the temples and ears. When I mentioned it to him, he said it was desert dirt that wouldn’t wash off.”
There are a few chuckles—but not a single one from the stoic, serious, and formal Corps detail.
“I remember asking him why he’d always shine his boots and shoes knowing they were going to just get dirty anyhow. He said it was part of the required uniform. When I made a face, he grinned and went on to tell me the reason he made sure all of his gear met and, most times, exceeded the demands made by the Marine Corps, the Commander in Chief, and the country was because he wanted to show pride in who he was, what he was, what he did, and by doing so, others always knew as well. Some followed suit. Never was there a day when Colonel Ezra Fox’s gig line wasn’t straight, his military creases not crisp, or, again, his boots or shoes not shined.”
Everything my father did was for others. He did very little for himself. Sure, he had his little treats and hobbies, but it was like helivedto be able to help others. I can honestly say I have never met another person like him, and I probably never will again.
My dad, your brother, uncle, friend, your Colonel is irreplaceable and unforgettable. I think for some of you out there, he was a shining example of what you strive to be.
For me? He is, was, and always will be my hero. Oorah.
My knees are shaking, the tears are welling, and when the Marines stand, give a unified ‘oorah’, and salute me, I can no longer keep them at bay, no matter how bad-ass I want to look in front of these men.
I can’t see. My tears are blinding me. It’s then that he comes to help me. He’s given me the time I needed for myself, but now he knows I need him.
