soldiers

I never thought he could die. People as strong as he was don’t die. Men who have fought battles against beings that didn’t even exist twenty years ago don’t die. At least not like that. He was supposed to die years in the future fighting for a worthy cause, not sick in the hospital, an emaciated old man. Now they expect me to stand up in front of these people and tell them how much he was honored and respected. Why? They already know all that. They know what a brave man he was, a good soldier, an honorable commander. That’s all they really want to hear. But I don’t want to regurgitate all that. I want to refuse. But I can’t tell them what I’m thinking now. I won’t tell them what I’m remembering. Waiting for the letters from places and planets, I’d never heard of. Receiving gifts chosen by his secretary. Waiting for his car to come in the driveway between battles, a car that often never came because he was celebrating victory with his men. These people gathered here don’t want to hear about the almost hate-filled relationship we shared. I could almost hate him for not wanting me. And he could almost hate me for not worshiping him, being like him. But sometimes he did hate me for killing her. The love of his life, his heart and soul. Her last breath was my first and he hated me for it sometimes. But I won’t say those things. I’ll stand up and give my prepared speech. I’ll say what a great leader he was and list his good qualities. I’ll say how sad it is that he died that way and reminisce about the few times I saw him in person and not through a communication screen. I won’t talk about his wars or his soldiers, though. I can’t. Because sometimes I hate them because he loved them more.
After the funeral I sit beside his tombstone. Finally he is once again with his beloved. And I whisper the only thing I can think of as the tears finally fall. “Good-bye, Daddy.”