kia

He hadn’t seen his son in almost two years, and, now, he was hearing from the army that Billy had been killed in action, in Afghanistan. It still hadn’t registered, completely. He knew it, intellectually; it had been explained to him by more than one army official. The day. The time. The incident. The bomb. Remains had been identified; they were on the way home. It all added up. But he still struggled with the “what if,” that last bit of hope, that last vestige of right. Maybe someone had made a mistake. After all, it would be wrong for Billy to go before they could talk, again. It would be wrong for Billy to die before they had one last moment to sit together. It would be almost evil for Billy to die before he had a chance to hug and kiss him. He puts his hands on his head, now, and tells himself to be smart, to accept, to let it all in and allow it time before he thinks, says, acts. It is not easily accepted nor done, this resignation. He thinks it might kill him. And he doesn’t care, much, if it does.