Somewhere, I Am Waiting for You

Somewhere, I Am Waiting for You

Chapter 1

Grip

Sometimes, life takes a good, firm grip. It grasps you around the wrist, fingers clutching the thin skin, criss-crossed with purple veins carrying the message all the way to the heart. Sometimes life pulls you along.

Other times, life loosens. Sometimes, the locked clutch of its icy fingers breaks, brittle icicles shatter. Sometimes, the shards of bone and marrow and tendon and muscle slip off of your long-dead body and splash into nothingness in a puddle of frozen tears. Sometimes, it just lets go.

Today, life did the latter. Today, a strange man or woman in a strange country or planet pointed a strange gun or missile at a woman who was never a stranger. And killed her. Today, life exploded and its bitter fingers let go. I am falling.

We don't know the details. Husband and child and space where a wife and mother used to sit sat in a room and waited. Unsympathetic officer tells us

"She was strong."
"A good soldier."
"Died for a cause."
"Will receive full decoration."
"Details undisclosed."

And we sat and waited. Waited and waited and waited. We sat with the space growing stale beside us and we still waited. We are still waiting, filling a space that never gets full with silence.

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