Jet Fuel & Febreze
My feet hurt. Mom insisted I get some nice shoes for this. A "dignified transfer ceremony" she said...and they say we might meet with the Commander-in-Chief. My brother would have absolutely loved my pain. I can’t believe I won’t get roasted by my little brother again. Ever. Mom has on her best church shoes, but she looks like she belongs in them.
The President wears an embroidered gold, braggadocious as hell, “47” hat into the room. I detect something less than respect. He is bereft of decency, humanity, love, honor, gratefulness or sadness. He keeps talking about winning our state in all his elections. He keeps saying “your boy” when talking about Robert. He doesn’t know his name. I saw a news show later when they said he started referring to the war as an “excursion.” He tried that line first on us. I thought I saw mom jerk slightly, but I was so tired from the travel and the other hell that I wasn’t sure.
Did his heart beat 47 times after the impact? Forty-seven times we called his unit and buddies asking why we hadn’t heard from him. Forty-seven minutes in labor for mom in 2003. He was so easy, she said. She said that she held him that day and all she could hear were TV’s in the hospital broadcasting the news anchors’ endlessly reveling at how our military took the Iraqi military down so fast.
President George W. Bush was here many, many times. As he welcomed home the caskets of the women and men who slept in their dress blues after the bombs in the sand. They never planned for that. Not really. This is a little different than dying and then bloating in the sun on bloodsoaked battlefields across Virginia and Pennsylvania in the Civil War. Maybe it’s better than being dead but listed as “Missing In Action” in a jungle in Vietnam. It’s about the same for the crying mothers though, regardless of the century or the war.
Dads cry too, even though it doesn't come as easy. It sometimes comes harder because the dam is old and dutiful, so the rush is unexpected and terribly powerful. Maybe the drip, drip overflow of every day and every week and every month is a better preparation for the worst time of your life for the moms. Mom wasn’t crying today though.
He actually mentioned his new ballroom. It will cover up the East Room like the ground will cover my brother. They will say Robert’s not forgotten. But I know his photo will meld together with all the other ones they see on their screens through the days, the years, and the decades of our country using the Middle East to prop up egos, ramp up testosterone, and make families break forever. Boots up your ass goes both ways.
There were hollow words about feeling our loss. The same hollowness that just last week Robert said he heard from those who gladly supported this “Hollywood” war. He hated the performatory “thank you for your service” routine. The President doesn’t even try that line. That’s fine, because he does not feel our loss and he knows nothing of service. He is serviced by the power of taking lives and commanding others to lose theirs. This power appears to be quite a drug.
Momma had enough. I swear, I knew she would say it before she did. I had no reason to know this. She has never said anything like that. No one would believe it had ever floated through her mind, but it rolled off her tongue with a soft ferocity. “Go fuck yourself." The big man looked a bit surprised but also emboldened. He regained his superior demeanor. He tilted his chin up, quickly glanced and winked at a young staffer. He said to mom, “you'll feel better soon.” Again, she said it, “go fuck yourself.” He ran his hand in a flowing motion across the space in front of her and his team jumped into action to escort us from the room. His “47” hat brim rose up and lifted his mass with it. His smirk changed to a non-affected look as he lumbered out of the room. We dragged ourselves out of there and into the rest of the nightmare.
They escorted us to a bus to depart the base and then on to hotels, airlines, parking lots, casseroles, tissues, anger, despair, and emptiness. Nostalgia came later. Bittersweet tears of happy times slowly broke though. We joined our first club ever. No one seeks to join the Gold Star Families, it was chosen for us.
The cruel consequences of conceit do not destroy the ones that choose war. They fall upon the warriors and those they leave behind. Like mom said…
Listen:
Jason Isbell- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJb1_EGnapY
Steve Earle- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4nXQJ-H8v3Y
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