I enlisted just under two years ago. Right after I joined my third command, I found out Chris was sick. Not just two weeks no school sick, he was sick real bad. I remember when I found out.
I had been in Bremerton for just a week, still checking in with the ship. I liked to go to Seattle in the evenings-it was just after Halloween, and it was bitch cold. I had left the base when my dad called me on my phone-it was bad news, and I should know, and could I call the family? Chris had leukemia. I didn't call the family. I was too mad and too scared and too sad. I walked.

I would go up Capitol and then walk down the hills to the Space Needle, then head back towards the docks, through Belltown, then left and along the water until I reached the ferry station. Bremerton was beautiful. The towns were decrepit, like brooding, damaged mothers, staring blankly in to the fog. The streets were caught up in meth and drowning in stale beer, but it was alright. Everything was tired, and the lakes and harbor were clean, like brittle razors that had been put up in polish rags. There was nothing to do but walk until the pavement turned to duff and the houses and trailers grew into trees, walking with you, whispering until you came to the shore, to watch the lights across the bay, the ferries lumbering across the the ink. I liked it. It made my heart feel better about everything.

I didn't call the family until we had begun our deployment. I was back in San Diego, on liberty, pitifully drunk and sitting on the wall of an apartment complex on North Island, peeling the label off of my bottle and staring across the water once again, watching the lights of downtown and the big, proud, green "41" of the USS Midway. I called them-it was true. My friend was being tested and injected and sampled and transfused and stuck and stitched and taped. He was sick. I tried not to think about it. My ship left America. I kept everything deep inside, hiding it form myself. I focused on the sand that blew across the Persian Gulf, cutting my face, staining the bulkheads. I lied to myself. "He'll get better. It's only fair."

I pushed it further and further from my mind. I focused only on the job. I volunteered, like an idiot, for all the most dangerous assignments, signing up for everything that came along. I came away covered in scars and ashamed. I ignored my friend. I didn't want to think about it.

I came back from the war more silent, nervous. I was alright, but changed. I can still feel the war echo through me, and I will feel it for the rest of my life.

I came home, and everything was okay. Chris was getting better-it was a false diagnosis. He would only need maintenance medicine-he wasn't really sick. I was happy, happier than I ever think I had been. We rode around in his car like nothing had ever happened. We had dinner at my place the night before I left for Norfolk, to rejoin my ship. We had fun. Everything was fine. Everything was alright.

It's October 23d. Chris died the morning of October 21st, in the predawn hours. As I was waking up, buffing my boots and putting on my uniform, he was suffocating. As I smoked, watching the sun rise over Desert Cove, my best friend died, paralyzed, sedated, lungs invaded by thick, foul bacteria. I wouldn't find out until the afternoon. We had knocked off early. I sat in my barracks, still in uniform, halfway drunk.I walked out of the barracks and staggered down the path to the Navy Exchange, alone. My girlfriend was on duty-she had the midwatch. I stood in front of the Exchange, watching the young men and women come and go. They had nothing to care about, no one to worry for.

My phone rang. I answered it.

I tried not to cry.



I miss you so much, Chris.