the party: All your big brother’s friends from high school. The neighbors. Some favorite teachers, even Mrs. Miller from third grade of all people. Local family, an uncle from up in Milwaukee who was more like a brother to both of you. His girlfriends from over the years all in one place and being kind to each other. Your dad was proud to have a son going off to war, since he hadn’t been able to as much as he tried, stuck his four years behind a desk on the safe side of the ocean. It always galled him to have to admit he never fought.

the letter: I was watching our asses while Gunny showed some of the Fuckin’ New Guys how to dig out a beer can mine the Bad Guys left behind on the edge of the road. Turned out there was a bigger, pressure-triggered mine underneath it. Somehow all the shrapnel missed me. I flew out to the hospital ship holding the bloody hand of an eighteen-year old kid who kept screaming until the morphine set in or he bled out. I’m not sure which. Padre Jacobs from the ship gave him Last Rites on the flight deck, and we carried him down to the morgue. So tell me, Dad. Please. What do you think you missed, and what do you think about this wonderful war of yours now?

the photo: Low, simple buildings line a dirt street A shadowed body leans out a doorway. The muzzle of a rifle and the camera lens stare into each other. It’s the last image on your big brother’s camera.

the flag-draped coffin: Imagine.