Roy De Soto stood there and stared at the tombstone that had been placed there the previous day. The grass had already started to cover the grave that had been dug a month ago. A grave that held the body of his child. It had taken time to choose just the right one. It's not like they had been prepared for it. They had never thought they would need to pick out a tombstone for their child. But war can do that. War can take children from their parents, spouses from each other, parents from their children. War does not discriminate.
He stood there and stared at the tombstone that had been placed there the previous day and his shoulders shook and the tears ran down his cheeks. He knew what it was like to die in war, far from home, probably scared, maybe alone. He had been there. He had seen too many die around him as he tried to stop the bleeding from too many holes, from too many missing limbs. He had counted each day until he returned home: 30 days in, 60 days in, 100 days in, 200 days in, 300 days in 365 days in. He had made it home.
When his child left, he counted the days: 30 days in, 60 days in, 100 days in, 200 days in. On day 215 a knock came on the door and he stopped counting. We regret to inform you, your child has died, far from home, probably scared, maybe alone. He had sunk to his knees, the weight of the words too heavy for him to bear. Sinking to his knees again, he reached out a trembling hand to the cold stone in front of him and traced the letters of the name: Jennifer De Soto Sgt., United States Army.