Memories of a Life

What does death taste like? Turnips. Twenty bucks says everyone tastes something different, Mom. I know you didn't like me to gamble, even though it was a part of our favorite game when I was young. Remember when I'd come into the kitchen wearing a blindfold and bet you I could tell what was for dinner by tasting it? Of course, you knew it was my way of getting a snack before dad got home. Wise mother that you were you had me taste-test dessert most of the time. And, wise son that I was, I ate my dinner so you would play the game with me the next day. I tried to please you, Mom, but turnips were a difficult obstacle to overcome.

You never disappointed me, Jason. You were the first to grow in my womb. That made you special. I can still feel your little feet dancing their jig inside me and your tiny lips suckling my milk-laden breasts. I remember holding you in my arms, rocking you to sleep on those nights when the monsters were big and loud. Then you grew up and we didn't touch—until the day you left to fight for us all. I held you longer than you were comfortable with, I could tell: but you let my arms linger around you, let my tears soak your sleeve. My heart aches knowing that you won't be able to feel the grasp of your daughter's tiny fingers, or her warmth when she cuddles on your lap, or her love when she gives you a hug.

Our wedding vows said 'til death do us part, Jason. Death came too soon. Now I lie awake at night, your scent permeating the bedroom. The odor of your sweat after an evening of making love lingers in my mind. The smell of your aftershave brings a smile to my face. The aroma of your homemade barbecue sauce floating in from the patio as I prepare the salads takes the smile away. Amanda will never experience those with you. But I will remind her everyday of who her father was. She will learn about the brave man who saved others by sacrificing himself. She will learn about a side of you I never knew existed until you came home.

Hey, bro, it's Todd. I know you liked being the hero. Seeing the fans stand and cheer your name was your drug. I can't picture you falling on a mine to save other soldiers. In my mind, I visualize the skirt chaser, the boozer, the guy whose mantra was screw life. What happened to you, man?

I should be next to you hearing a newborn's cry, son. Instead I lie awake at night listening to your mother's sobs emanating from the rocking chair in the corner. When I finally fall asleep I'm at the ball field hearing the crack of the bat, the announcer shouting your name as you cross the goal line, the sounds of young boys at play. I haven't spoken to anyone since the evening they came to the door. I don't know what to say to make things better—for your mother or me.

Thank you all for finding the time to chat today. I want you to know my memories of you made my final march easier—Dad's shouts as I rounded third that last game, Todd's drunken stagger as we walked back to the Delta Tau house after the Halloween keg party, the smell of Teri's hair as she lay with her head on my chest, Mom's last hug. And the awful taste of turnips.

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