The chaplain’s voice drifted in and out, sounding steady and kind against the backdrop of the gray morning. Somewhere to my left, somebody was crying into a tissue with that soft, embarrassed sound people make when they are trying not to be heard. The honor guard moved in clean, practiced lines with boots striking the dirt in a rhythmic, somber cadence.
Everything around me had structure, but inside of me, there was nothing but a deafening noise of grief. My commanding officer, General Vance, had come in person, along with half of my chain of command and the neighbors from our street. Even Mia’s second grade teacher was there, still wearing a cardigan with tiny embroidered ladybugs on the collar.
The three folding chairs reserved for my family remained painfully empty throughout the entire service. I kept glancing at them even when I hated myself for it, because those black metal frames looked too bare in the light. I had told myself there could be traffic from San Antonio or a rental car issue, clinging to those excuses because the alternative was too ugly to look at.