I am home.
I flew in Tuesday night. I had spent four days weeping and drinking on the base. At night my girl held me as I cursed and wept into sleep. I buttoned myself into my charlies on Tuesday morning, arriving at the airport far too early. I drank my coffee, and tried to smoke, and everythign was hollow. I slept as the plane wheeled through thick cloud, taking it's sweet time, pissing me off more and more as the minutes faded. I had a stopover in Vegas. My sister called me, we talked about some details, she told me to take care. I didn't want to.
A soldier approached me as I stood in the smoke pit, trying not to conversate with the civilians. We talked about our jobs. I had recently returned from the war, he would be entering it soon. It felt good to talk to him-something has brought us together. We share a war, a terrible fiery thing that has seared our collective flesh together, our bloods pulsing and joining in the new veins. This war has made us who we are. It will make our children and our wives, and they will be beautiful, fearsome things that we will fight to love and keep.
We said goodbye to Chris. The family had a private viewing on Wednesday, and I was allowed to spend a moment with him. I felt like a kid again, watching him in his coffin. I felt like I was just 15, and we were gonna go to a show tonight. Nothing about it fit. They let him go in his Norma Jean shirt and his old Dickies jacket. His brother Marc had put Chris's drumsticks and sunglasses in the coffin. He had put my copy of Call fo the Wild in there, too,and I gave Chris the letter I wrote the day he died. I felt so angry and so frustrated. I pressed my hand against his and he didn't wake up, and I talked to him, but he didn't talk to me. I cried, and his mom held me, and his dad too, and I felt so cheated. I felt like a kid, for a tiny singing moment. And then I stepped out side and I was no longer a kid, I had traded my childhood for the Suck. It wasn't supposed to be like this.
He was supposed to get better, and I was supposed to get out the Suck, and we'd hang out, like nothing had happened, and we could just walk the streets again, talking about the things we liked to talk about. We would eat dinner at my place, and we'd scam the liquor store, and Tara would come over, and Holly too, and we'd play black cat. Kyle would swing by, maybe bring Phil or Romano with him. Ben would be there, and Ian and Brian, Heather would be okay and Kedzie would somehow glide in, unnoticed. Marc and Sara would be there, everyone would be there. And it would be okay. That's how it was supposed to happen. But it didn't happen like that.
We said goodbye Thursday night, all of us. His teachers showed up, all of his family that could fly out, all the kids I knew and a shit ton I didn't. His doctors were there. I tried to speak, but I fucked it up.
I remember the very end of the vigil. Marc had a CD of Chris's, one that he had recorded himself. He played a song off it for us. I was sitting to the side of the room, next to Debi and Carlos and Brendan. It was such a beautiful song, just Chris and his guitar. I wanted to tell him how good I thought it was. But I couldn't. I felt tears forming, first a little, then in numbers. I bit my hand and held them in. I looked at Carlos, and the same tears were running down his face. Debi held him. Brendan looked so alone, so hollow. We all felt so helpless. Crying, frustrated, growing up too fucking fast.
I wanted my friend back. I want to fix the break in my heart.
We put him in the ground today. Everyone he ever meant anything to came to say goodbye. I was a pallbearer. The pastor spoke, and someone played some music, and there were prayers. But it was all the same. Every word was code for goodbye. I helped bear him to the hearse.
We put our flowers on the casket as he lay in the hearse, the coffin cracked open. We could see him, his aviators, like he was sleeping between classes. We closed the hearse and his dad placed his hand on the window as it began to slowly roll out of the parking lot. Chris's mom started to clap, and then we were all clapping, loud, beating our palms into sound, clapping agains the tears, and it felt right.
Chris's last show was good. He was fucking awesome. And if I'm good, we'll play again.
I flew in Tuesday night. I had spent four days weeping and drinking on the base. At night my girl held me as I cursed and wept into sleep. I buttoned myself into my charlies on Tuesday morning, arriving at the airport far too early. I drank my coffee, and tried to smoke, and everythign was hollow. I slept as the plane wheeled through thick cloud, taking it's sweet time, pissing me off more and more as the minutes faded. I had a stopover in Vegas. My sister called me, we talked about some details, she told me to take care. I didn't want to.
A soldier approached me as I stood in the smoke pit, trying not to conversate with the civilians. We talked about our jobs. I had recently returned from the war, he would be entering it soon. It felt good to talk to him-something has brought us together. We share a war, a terrible fiery thing that has seared our collective flesh together, our bloods pulsing and joining in the new veins. This war has made us who we are. It will make our children and our wives, and they will be beautiful, fearsome things that we will fight to love and keep.
We said goodbye to Chris. The family had a private viewing on Wednesday, and I was allowed to spend a moment with him. I felt like a kid again, watching him in his coffin. I felt like I was just 15, and we were gonna go to a show tonight. Nothing about it fit. They let him go in his Norma Jean shirt and his old Dickies jacket. His brother Marc had put Chris's drumsticks and sunglasses in the coffin. He had put my copy of Call fo the Wild in there, too,and I gave Chris the letter I wrote the day he died. I felt so angry and so frustrated. I pressed my hand against his and he didn't wake up, and I talked to him, but he didn't talk to me. I cried, and his mom held me, and his dad too, and I felt so cheated. I felt like a kid, for a tiny singing moment. And then I stepped out side and I was no longer a kid, I had traded my childhood for the Suck. It wasn't supposed to be like this.
He was supposed to get better, and I was supposed to get out the Suck, and we'd hang out, like nothing had happened, and we could just walk the streets again, talking about the things we liked to talk about. We would eat dinner at my place, and we'd scam the liquor store, and Tara would come over, and Holly too, and we'd play black cat. Kyle would swing by, maybe bring Phil or Romano with him. Ben would be there, and Ian and Brian, Heather would be okay and Kedzie would somehow glide in, unnoticed. Marc and Sara would be there, everyone would be there. And it would be okay. That's how it was supposed to happen. But it didn't happen like that.
We said goodbye Thursday night, all of us. His teachers showed up, all of his family that could fly out, all the kids I knew and a shit ton I didn't. His doctors were there. I tried to speak, but I fucked it up.
I remember the very end of the vigil. Marc had a CD of Chris's, one that he had recorded himself. He played a song off it for us. I was sitting to the side of the room, next to Debi and Carlos and Brendan. It was such a beautiful song, just Chris and his guitar. I wanted to tell him how good I thought it was. But I couldn't. I felt tears forming, first a little, then in numbers. I bit my hand and held them in. I looked at Carlos, and the same tears were running down his face. Debi held him. Brendan looked so alone, so hollow. We all felt so helpless. Crying, frustrated, growing up too fucking fast.
I wanted my friend back. I want to fix the break in my heart.
We put him in the ground today. Everyone he ever meant anything to came to say goodbye. I was a pallbearer. The pastor spoke, and someone played some music, and there were prayers. But it was all the same. Every word was code for goodbye. I helped bear him to the hearse.
We put our flowers on the casket as he lay in the hearse, the coffin cracked open. We could see him, his aviators, like he was sleeping between classes. We closed the hearse and his dad placed his hand on the window as it began to slowly roll out of the parking lot. Chris's mom started to clap, and then we were all clapping, loud, beating our palms into sound, clapping agains the tears, and it felt right.
Chris's last show was good. He was fucking awesome. And if I'm good, we'll play again.
posted by Diebold at 2:59 PM
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