literature

Weeping For The Soldiers And Their Goodbyes

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I drove my blue 1967 Chevy Impala down a paved road into Joint Base Lewis-McCord (JBLM), where my twin brother Adam would be starting boot camp. He was dressed in his Army fatigues, and looked handsome with his beard shaved off and his hair a uniform buzz-cut. I stared down the long tarmac, wishing that I was going with him. I remember the day I received my rejection letter into the Academy. I was inconsolable, especially after Adam received his acceptance letter.
As JBLM crept closer and closer, I felt the anxiety rise inside my stomach, hard cherry pits rolling in the bottom and a hummingbird heart inside my chest. I took a shaky deep breath. Adam looked over to me and arched his eyebrow dramatically, curious as to what my heavy sigh was about. I looked over at him briefly, and the comical way his eyebrow arched made me laugh.
“What?” Adam asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Nothing?” Adam said, exasperated. “What do you mean, nothing?”
“Just thinking about why the motherfuckers didn’t accept me, is all.” I stared out into the heat of the summer, grateful for the shielding of glass and cool air.
“It’s not that you’re not good enough, okay? It’s that those dummies don’t like accepting siblings—especially twins,” he said.
“But we look nothing alike!” I protested. This statement couldn’t be far from the truth. Adam was fair-skinned, fine-boned, tall, willowy, with blonde hair and eyes the color of the sea in summer. I was short and stocky, olive skin that coppered in the summer, dark violet eyes set above high cheekbones. He was a man; I was a woman who could only pretend to be a man.
“But we have the same last names,” Adam countered.
“So? I’ll change mine.”
“You just want to go because Blue is leaving, too.”
“Am not!”
But Adam was right; part of the reason I wanted to join the Army was to keep an eye on my stupid-ass clumsy boyfriend, Blue—he had joined the Army a week before Adam did. I could conjure up Blue’s face, right now: his dark blue eyes. his black hair, his blue highlights, his slightly feminine face, average height and medium built, perfect for running. All he wore was blue and black. I was surprised that Blue didn’t want to be a sailor; the colors were all his.
A iron-link fence, a gate, and a checkpoint rose into view. I drove steady, not speeding up or slowing down. I came to a slow stop a few yards away from the checkpoint. Adam took off his dog-tags and opened the glove compartment. He took out a steel-ball chain and slid one of his tags on it. He put it over my head; the cool indented metal felt good against my skin.
Adam put his single dog-tag around his neck and smiled.
“So we’ll be close,” he said. “Besides, I have to come back to make sure you don’t lose that damn thing.”
We laughed, but there were tears standing out in both of our eyes.
Adam grabbed his duffel back from the back and got out of the car. He swung the strap over his shoulder and closed the passenger side door. He came over to my side and opened the door.
He bent down and embraced me, giving me a hard squeeze before letting go. When he pulled away, his hands lingered on my shoulder. Tears gleamed in his eyes and ran down his cheeks. Tears of my own spilled over my eyelashes.
Adam smiled and said, “Be good now, ya hear?”
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. I watched him walk up to the checkpoint, where a man leaned out and checked Adam’s military ID before pulling himself back in. The gate started to slowly open. Adam walked through, and as the gate closed, he turned to me and smiled as he flashed a peace sign. I managed to get a photo of him in that pose; it’s hung on my wall to this day.
I pulled out and turned around, heading back towards Packwood—the sticks, and a long drive from here. I might end up crashing at a friend’s house in Olympia tonight—it was five o’clock now, and I had been driving for over five hours already.
Suddenly, I was overcome by sadness. Tears blurred my vision. I blinked them away and looked for a spot to turn over. Luckily, there was a wide, well carved turn-over spot coming up; I turned my blinker on and parked in the pull-in. I laid my head against the steering wheel and wept.
I wondered, in the middle of my weeping, if anyone else had stopped here for the exact same reason I did. I started weeping again, and I wept for these strangers who knew my pain.
So, I'm writing a story, and It started with "Letter To A Dead Man," which should be in my deviations somewhere. (dragonhatcher26.deviantart.com…)
I hope you enjoy. 
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