We were death partners before we were friends. When we met more than thirty years ago, I was so pregnant with my first child, I resembled an over-stuffed sausage. I couldn’t even reach around my torso to shave my legs which sported enough hair to resemble wire brushes.

You, on the other hand, strode across my threshold like a runway model. Chic in your black pencil-skirt, a mustard-hued real-estate blazer you somehow made fashionable, you pivoted on heels resembling knitting needles. Platinum hair parenthesized diamond-stud earrings, and your smile was white as a toothpaste commercial. I caught the subtle scent of expensive perfume. The last fragrance I’d worn was a sample surreptitiously torn from a waiting-room magazine.

Our husbands, Marine officers and high-caliber gentlemen, left us post-introductions, off to a local tavern.

After a pause, you said, “I’m so happy to finally meet you. You’re beautiful.”

You seemed so sincere, I could’ve wept. But lately, I cried at tissue commercials. This get-together was our husbands’ idea. I’d been extremely nervous ever since Jimmy broached the subject the previous month.

***

Ken and Jimmy weren’t just fighter-pilots stationed together. They’d become close friends, spending months deployed on aircraft carriers in the middle of nowhere. Technically, we were an assignment they had to complete. With detachments intensifying, they needed us to like each other.

Meanwhile, you cursed like a pirate, housed enough gossip to warrant your own talk show, and fiercely loved your man. Within minutes, I was putty in your palms. We laughed as if we’d been friends for years. You made the business at hand less overwhelming.

In my tiny kitchen, we reviewed the government-issued paperwork. DD193 was mandatory for married special-ops officers. Completing these forms meant one of us would be present to inform the other that her husband was killed-in-action. We were total strangers who may bear witness to the other’s worst nightmare.

Before signing, you clasped my hands. “I know we just met but you need to know something.” Your tone hushed; I stiffened. “If you’re at my door, flanked by uniforms, I’ll get Ken’s gun, put the barrel in mouth and pull the trigger.”

I gasped. You were serious. You made me promise never to tell anyone, not even Jimmy. In utter disbelief, I nodded. You flamboyantly scrawled your signature on the bottom of DD193, then slid it over like you’d just sold me a duplex.

That day, we passed bits of ourselves back and forth like poker chips. At one point, you asked to touch my belly. I placed your delicate hand on the crest of my abdomen. Something more than my baby swelled inside me that afternoon. It was the seedling of our friendship.

Weeks later, you confided in me that your mother had taken a prescribed drug during her pregnancy that robbed you of a chance at motherhood. My heart ached for you, but I had no words, not like you. I wish I’d told you you’d make an amazing mom.

***

Jimmy and I met in college, and he was determined to be a pilot. A benevolent warrior, a great dad who spared spiders and bees; whispered ‘two points,’ under his breath when anything he tossed landed in the trashcan. I melted in his arms with every hug, but I’d accepted long ago, as all pilots’ wives do, Jimmy’s first love would always be flight. Nevertheless, I had a constant longing.

On lonely nights, when I wasn’t counting days until he came home, I distracted myself with scenarios should I have to deliver you that fatal news. According to DD193, I’d get the call; then, I’d be officially escorted to your whereabouts. I imagined myself physically restraining you. Residual strength from childbirth would have an advantage over you in stilettos, but I couldn’t hang on like a chimp indefinitely. Only once did I casually broach the topic of Ken’s gun, simply asked if you’d ever had lessons. Your response was something one doesn’t forget.

“I don’t need lessons when the target is inside my own mouth.”

***

While the guys deployed, we ran the gamut of emotions, surviving Christmas and Thanksgivings without them. You held my hand while I gave birth the second time, until Jimmy arrived. You convinced me to pursue writing.

Our conversations were endless. So consumed with missing our spouses, I never imagined missing you. When it inevitably happened, I was gut-punched. After years of friendship, Jimmy received official orders. We’d be moving to a base thousands of miles away. We spent that last Sunday together, just like any other barbeque, but it wasn’t. We tiptoed around our impending separation until dusk and mosquitoes descended.

Jimmy left the following dawn for training, and I was wide-awake, so I busied myself, trying to forget moving away from you. By mid-afternoon, I laid down with my babies for a welcome nap. The phone woke me. I answered - just dial-tone. My slumber was interrupted again by the doorbell. I quickly slipped from the bed, not wanting the boys to wake.

When I opened the door, it took a moment to register the black, town-cars. Then, the pieces fell into place. The phone call: somber uniformed officers crowding my doorstep: there was only one explanation. I’d be informing you Ken was dead.

Weak kneed, I grabbed the door frame. I’d prepared for this moment, certainly more than most military spouses. I stifled a sob. I will be there for you.

“What about my boys?” You’re the one I’d call in emergencies.

A female officer stepped forward. “I’m Dr. Graham, a psychologist. I’ll stay as long you need.”

Reassured, I shifted my focus. I’ve kept my promise, your secret, since the day we met—But, I had to divulge your plan. I clamped my damp eyes shut, praying this was just a bad dream. Unfortunately, when I opened my eyes, the uniforms were still there.

I was about to speak when, as if on cue, the officers slowly parted. That was when I saw you.

“You” first appeared in the Reedsy Anthology 2025.

Thursday afternoon. End of October. Championship soccer game. Lady Hawks versus the Mounties. Coach Phillips—Miss Phil: “Don’t act like ladies out there! Crush them. Make those Mounties cry on their way home!”

I was afraid of the ball, goalies, and needed constant reminders about positioning on the field. Headers were especially terrifying. I liked the beginning of practices, stretching and hydrating, reconnecting with Audrey, Liz, Debbie, and Kathy after school, pulling the threads of our day together: a chemistry quiz, World War II (again). Does anybody like watermelon gum? The end of practices—we fanned out in clumps of three or four, cleats slung over our shoulders, planning trips to the mall and the movies, perm or no perm? The rush to get our driver’s licenses. Shouts of “Call you later!” as we met our parents in the parking lot or branched off to walk home. 

I liked the bus rides to games. I didn’t get to ride a school bus because my dad, everyone else’s English teacher, always drove my siblings and me to school in the Buick.

I liked the smell of the tall, green vinyl seats, how a charge of anticipation surged through the stale air in those wide yellow machines.

Most of us had gone through crab soccer on the cafeteria floor during our Catholic school days. The hideous, wide-pleated, boxy, plaid uniforms for our shapeless sixth-grade bodies at St. Augustine’s were long gone. Slippery, v-neck, light blue jerseys stretched over our biceps and breasts. Navy athletic shorts hugged our sculpted asses and thighs. Junior year was underway. Sixteen—intoxicating. 

An array of dying leaves in burnt orange, dusty yellow, and scarlet on birches and maples amid a few tall white pines dotted the perimeter of the sports complex behind the community college. I’d wrapped and unwrapped an old sweatshirt around my toothpick legs from my station on the aluminum bench, freezing with a capital F. The athletes, though, radiated heat and grit. 

Still, well into the second half, the Mounties were beating us 1-0. 

Then Michelle, a star forward, slammed into a Mountie or a Mountie slammed into her. Miss Phil hoisted Michelle up and carried her off to Doc Spear. Not far from me, Miss Phil paced and crossed her arms. Seeing her only option, she triple-checked with the injured party and medical professional, “Are you SURE?”

I whipped off my flimsy excuse for a layer and trotted out to the field. My friends were like fading glow sticks, losing power but doing their best to keep shining. Mounties towered over me and glared. I was a ninety-pound nothing. 

I ran. I bounced from the front line, zig-zagging like I was off leash, eager to get the ball. Families crowded the sidelines. Audrey passed the ball my way. I closed my eyes and kicked as hard as I could. My back met the grass. I scored. The place went nuts. I’d tied the game. Teammates surrounded me in seconds, linking arms. We formed an enormous circle hopping and yelling into each other’s faces while the sun went down.

Double overtime. Still tied up. We went into a shootout—when players take individual, undefended runs up field, starting at the 35-yard line. Miss Phil had made my friends practice a shootout scenario for weeks. They filled up on adrenaline. Goal. Goal. Goal. The Mounties went home in tears. 

That was before. 

Before defeat would come for us.

Before melanoma took Liz’s mom’s leg and then gradually demolished the rest of her body.

Before an aneurysm exploded in Debbie’s dad’s brain.

Before a different soccer player on a different Thursday far, far in the distance—one of the most electrifying teenagers—thought death was better than being sixteen. He was mine.

We didn’t know there’d be a time when we weren’t girls. We didn’t know we’d embrace each other in those futures. Tears, texts, sobs in the dark. We didn’t know how cracked and unsteady we could be, how frayed, and hollowed out. We didn’t know how to stitch ourselves back together. We’ve practiced.

We only knew how to scream-sing Queen’s “We Are the Champions” over the seats and in the aisle during the bus ride back to school. Maybe we could get away with wearing our soccer uniforms as Halloween costumes, hoping the good houses with the good candy would still have their porch lights on. We wanted to cram another bucketful of sweetness into the last few hours of that velvety autumn night. 

No time for losing. 

My toes wiggle inside my favorite pair of Sambas, urging my circulatory system to do its job. The tour has only just begun, and already, I regret not donning that second pair of socks before I left the hotel. Pulling a tissue from my pocket, I wipe my nose and inch closer to the other bodies around me, trying to remain inconspicuous as I invade their personal space in an attempt to stay warm.

January in New York City is no joke.

I booked this trip for two reasons: First, I’ve always wanted to visit the 9/11 Memorial, and second, I want to have something—anything—to do tomorrow besides suffer through the inauguration. My plan is to travel outside the city, maybe to a cliff overlooking a beautiful gorge. Perhaps I’ll drive over the edge. I haven’t decided yet.

The group shuffles toward the reflecting pool where the north tower once stood. Mike, our elderly guide, adjusts his microphone, cupping his gloved hands around it to minimize the constant interference from the wind. His endearing Staten Island cadence travels through the space and time between us before spilling through my headset. Our breaths expel into the atmosphere and hang in mid-air like tiny cartoon bubbles while we wait for Mike to inform us where to place our attention next. 

He tells us about some of the names engraved in the tempered steel around the pool. The letters stare up at me, strung together but holding no meaning until Mike brings them to life. I try to imagine faces, smiles, mannerisms. Were they old? Young? Did they perish quickly or suffer? Were they trapped in a stairwell? Under a desk? Did they call 911 or their loved ones, scared and alone, desperate for connection? 

Two teenage girls stand about fifty feet away. Dressed in puffy coats and pink hats with sparkling pom-poms, they smile and give the peace sign while snapping selfies. My stomach churns with rage at the lack of respect, and I open my mouth to say something unkind, the acidic words on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I watch as they scroll through the photos and delete the ones they deem unworthy before turning away. 

Anger consumes me a lot lately, the slightest infraction setting me off. Most days, it feels like I’m screaming into the wind, with no hope of my voice ever carrying above the chaotic noise to make even the smallest difference. My therapist said it’s a reaction to feeling powerless after the election. She suggested meditation. I told her to kindly fuck off. She acquiesced that anger management might be of benefit. So far, our impasse and my ire remain.

People mill about, jockeying for position while staring up at new steel-enforced buildings that rise into the sky in defiance of the evil that brought down their predecessors. Hats, pins, and scarves with American Flags and the silhouette of two boxy buildings sit in a kiosk just off the grounds. A reminder, just in case, that we “Never Forget.” 

A woman brushes past me. Her long braid hangs down her back. A few grey tendrils stick out, whispering against her Buddha-shaped earrings while her bohemian pantsuit peeks out beneath a long patchwork jacket. 

She reminds me of my mother. Eighty-five and a raging liberal, the woman I fought with incessantly during my teenage years, tells me things could be worse. I could be like her, surrounded by a group of scooter-driving members of The Silent Generation who tout the pontifications of right-wing media.

When Mike says we’re headed inside, there’s an audible sigh of relief from the group at the thought of a heated building. We follow him past a bench where a man in an onyx-colored overcoat sits, slumped with his head in his hands. The way the garment hangs on his body reminds me of the wooden valet stand my father used to have in his bedroom when I was a child. 

Stiff

Lifeless

Lost

An overwhelming urge to sit next to him comes over me. We don’t even need to talk. We could just sit together, united in grief for where we’ve been and where we’re headed. 

But I don’t. Instead, I keep walking as Mike explains where to find the restrooms once we get inside. I take note when he says there’s no photography in certain areas. It’s important to follow the rules, but I also understand the significance of knowing when it’s time to jump out of windows or face the fire. The man looks up when I pass, his wrinkled visage a hollow mask, and I wonder if he, too, ever had to choose between flames and free fall. 

We approach the building, where we form a new line to present our tickets. A family stands in front of me, the father’s red hat proudly perched atop his mop of brown curls. I haven’t seen many of them today, and for that, I’m grateful.

Bending down, he picks up a child of about four, swinging him up and settling him on his shoulders. The boy plucks the cap from his dad’s head and places it on his own before turning around to look behind him.

He catches my eye and beams at me with a smile that could light up Broadway. My fingers twitch before I raise them in a tentative wave. He waves back with excitement as the too-large hat swallows his head. The embroidered words across the front scream at me like a chant from a chaotic fever dream.

Make America Great Again. 

The line starts to move, and he turns around as his father pushes through the turnstile. 

My toes, frozen once again, are like ten impotent lead pipes under the thin leather of my sneakers. I concentrate on my feet, staring at the ground as I move forward, reminding myself I only have a little further to go until I reach the warmth waiting for me inside.