-REGRET- (a friend of mine told me this story that was passed down from her family and i had to write it up)
Small flags of red and blue lined of several headstones that were covered in yellow ribbons. Small bouquets were bright and vibrant, but others were withered and dying, leaving behind a shower of scattered petals. Aside from a bird perched in a nearby tree, I was the only living thing. I walked among the neat rows of granite markers in the military cemetery; a fact that I was grateful for. When I come here to visit the friends that I have lost, I prefer to share my thoughts with them alone.
I traced my fingers over the letters etched in the smooth granite, noticing once again how painfully close together the dates of birth and death were for one of my closest friends. It wasn't right, not at all.
On second glance, I wasn't alone after all. A young woman was walking slowly through the neat rows of headstones. Her auburn hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and I knew that her dark sunglasses concealed eyes that were red-rimmed and swollen with shed tears. I recognized that look well; I have worn it myself, and have seen it here too many times to count. It is the look of someone whose world has been shaken to the core, and who is now trying desperately to hold themselves together.
Death in war is ugly, brutal, and sudden, and it tears a jagged hole in the lives of unsuspecting families and friends. We come to the cemetery in search of a silent, solitary place to sit and reflect, trying to think of adequate words to say goodbye.
The young woman half-knelt and half-collapsed in the grass next to a bare mound of earth that marked the site of a recent burial, seemingly oblivious to my presence. A temporary cardboard marker had been pressed into the dirt until a permanent headstone could be placed, and it read simply, "S.SGT. Beloved son, brother, and friend. May 8, 1990 - March 30, 2011."
I realized that she was most likely the fallen soldier's sister. Her right hand slowly curved into a shape. Thumb out, first and last finger pointed up, and two middle fingers tucked against her palm. (American Sign Language for, "I love you.")
She tenderly stroked the cardboard marker with her three outstretched fingers. I knew from experience that that touch wasn't nearly enough to satisfy the desperate need to hold loved ones again. Stiff and unresponsive cardboard and granite are poor substitutes for those who they represent, but for now we have no other choice.
She curled into a tight ball, pressing herself firmly against the damp ground. Her fingers dug into the grass, clutching at it as though she were trying to reach beneath the layers of soil and hold her fallen brother.
The tears began to fall down her cheeks, slowly at first, and then faster and harder. Her quiet sniffles turned to wrenching sobs that wracked her whole body with violent tremors. She lifted her gaze to the sky, and a wail of utter grief and anguish poured forth from somewhere deep in her body. "Why?! Why couldn't I have one more day? God, please!"
She was choking on her tears now, choking and coughing and gasping as she cried. "I'm sorry! Dear God, why was I so stupid? I'm sorry, Will. I'm so, so sorry."
The words were punctuated with gasps, whimpers, and coughs: the sounds made by someone who is crying so hard that they are breathless and frantic.
I realized that she was one of the people who waited. They put off a confession or an apology, waiting for another time, another day, another chance that now would never come. Now she, like so many others, was left to speak those important words in front of a mound of earth and a grave marker instead of the person who needed to hear them.
I removed the wilted stems and crumbling leaves and petals from the base of the gravestone before me, replacing them with a bouquet of daisies dyed a rich red.
Then I walked away, leaving the woman alone with her tears, regrets, and unspoken words.
