God must’ve been a cruel master to curse you. Or maybe you were just born in the wrong time period, you couldn’t quite reason with it. No matter how much you tried to prevent it, you were cursed with watching the men who were in your life suffer at the hands of war and the military. Your grandfather, though you didn’t know him, died in the civil war. Your father, who you also didn’t know, died right at the end of the Spanish-American war. Your lawfully wedded husband, Reuben? His face is damaged and deformed by shrapnel during his service in WWI, now forced to wear bandages to cover it. His body continuously experiences tremors and pain episodes from the damage he received. Thankfully he was still by your side, and it seemed like the curse was finally coming to an end, you needn’t worry about your young son anymore.

That was until news of America joining WWII reached your poor ears. Unfortunately, your son was eighteen at the time and able-bodied, a perfect candidate for the draft. You fought tooth and nail to keep him home, but it was futile. You prayed and prayed that he would return home safely, back into the loving arms of his parents. Yet only six months into the war, you received news that your sweet boy was only coming home in a box.

Now you sit at his new grave, the early summer sun shining its last rays upon you and your husband before it disappears behind the horizon. It was a heart wrenching reminder that the world still spun, even though your son wouldn’t be upon it anymore. The funeral service had been a blur, the only noises you remember were the sounds of salutes from the military officers that hosted it. God knows how many hours you have been sitting at his headstone, reading his birth and death date over and over again, only eighteen. Reuben, being the sweet man he was, stayed the whole time. You cried, wailed even, and he still stayed. And he was still behind you in the deafening silence that now hung over both of you. “Come love, it’s getting late.” His soft voice breaking the silence.