His name was L/Cpl. Nathan Moore, and he was just 21 years-old.

Cuban_Liberal

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Sat Jan-29-05 05:50 PM
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His name was L/Cpl. Nathan Moore, and he was just 21 years-old.

Edited on Sat Jan-29-05 05:51 PM by Cuban_Liberal

Although it was late Thursday night when I got the news that Natty died Wednesday morning when his helicopter crashed in western Iraq, I had avoided going to see Duane and Amber until this afternoon. I had called, of course, and I had sent a card, but until today I just couldn't summon the strength I needed to be able to face them and share their pain; my own wounds are still fresh, and though the scar has formed, it is still an angry pink, still shiny and all too tender to the touch. Finally, today, decency, self-respect and shame at not having gone forced me to go to their house.

As I turn off onto the snow-covered street, I see what I had expected to see--- cars line both sides of the street in either direction from their house, and the driveway and walk were freshly-shoveled and salted. Parking and turning off the truck's engine, I sit and try to collect my thoughts, ignoring that small voice in the back of my brain telling me that it's not too late to leave and avoid the pain. I lock the truck and walk up the sidewalk, turn and go up the front steps; through the storm door, I can see Duane talking earnestly with a man I don't know. He sees me and we meet at the door, him holding it open for me as I step in and automatically unzip my coat. "Thank you for coming, Tony", he says as he takes my coat in one large hand, shaking my hand with the other. The house is warm, bright and noisy, filled not just with people I don't know, but filled also with the smells of abundant food and too many flowers.

As Duane comes back from hanging up my coat, I have the chance to observe him briefly from a distance, and something is wrong, something I can't quite identify at first, and then it hits me--- like a balloon that has lost air overnight, his 6'3", 240-pound frame is shrunken somehow; his larger-than-life presence isn't today. As we exchange the obligatory pleasantries and make small talk, my eye wanders over the family room, taking in the details of a life now so abruptly ended: the prom photograph of Natty and his date, the gymnastics and baseball trophies arrayed on the mantle, the one that says "All-State Baseball 2001" claiming center place, Matty's formal portrait in his Marine dress blues, the new corporal's chevrons prominently displayed on his jacket sleeve.

Finally, we're alone and we've run out of banalities to talk about, and the silence hangs, slightly awkward and pregnant, not at all something either of us is accustomed to when we're together; without willing them to, the words nonetheless come. "I'm so sorry, Duane" is all that comes out, but it is what he wants to hear, because he knows I mean it. He hugs me, and I can feel his body shake silently, his tears making a wet spot on my jacket. What can I say to this man--- my friend--- that will bring him even a small measure of comfort today? Nothing I can say will give him the only thing he wants, so I say nothing more, and I simply hold him until he's able to compose himself. I offer him my handkerchief, and he takes it, drying his eyes and blowing his nose. "I'll get it back to you OK?" he says; the last thing I care about right now is whether I ever get it back or not, but I say "No problem, Duane" because I know it's what he needs me to say. That's how it is with friends.

He steers me toward the kitchen for a cup of coffee I don't really want, but can't gracefully refuse; I'm introduced half a dozen times to half a dozen people I don't know and will never see again, after the funeral. We all smile, exchange names and perfunctory pleasantries, as ritual demands we do at such times, and soon enough it's time to go. Duane knows this, I know this, and each of us knows that the other knows, so with a look that I answer with the slightest of nods, he fetches my coat as I ease my way toward the front door. "Thank you for coming, Tony--- it means a lot. I'll tell Amber you were here--- she's not feeling well", he says, again taking my hand in his. His eyes are wells of pain--- bottomless, excruciating torment; I see, and he knows I see, but neither of us look away, because that's how it is with friends.

Driving back home, I am angry; no, I am furious. Why is a handsome young man dead in a place 10,000 miles away from his home, and why is my friend left to bury his only child? Where are George Bush and Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld and Richard Perle? Why were they not there to help Duane bear what no parent should ever have to bear? Where are these great believers in 'personal responsibility', for they are surely responsible for what has transpired. Why are those who must bear this awful burden those who are in no way whatsoever responsible for it? Even as I rage and rail and beat my hand on the dashboard, I know I will go back, and I will do whatever I can do to help Duane.

That's how it is with friends.

:grr: