It was a grey day in December when I stood, dressed in a suit of black, holding Alfred's and Matthew's tiny hands. The birds had stopped chirping for the moment and were solemn like the rest of us inside the funeral hall. The black coffin lined in white silk sitting on a raised platform in the front of the room held the perished person. An American flag was placed on the lid of the casket. I couldn't bring myself to look inside; I didn't need the young boys next to me to witness my tears anymore.

I'd shed plenty tears the day of Francis' death. I had been sobbing like a child in the living room, heartbroken when the phone call of Francis' death came. Alfred had entered the room unnoticed and had hugged me from the front, his short six year old arms almost completely wrapping around me. He didn't understand any of what had happened. All he knew was that his parent was in tears and he had the power to temporarily fix it. I had smiled through my waterworks before pulling him into my lap. Burying my face in his deep blonde hair, I knew I had a comfort or two left in this world. Francis had been killed during a war our country didn't even require. He had payed the ultimate price for no reason. A Purple Heart was only a piece of metal; how was that supposed to make up for the loss of a life? If I could trade my own life for Francis', then I would. Thankfully Matthew and Alfred had me left to care for them but it wasn't the same.

Soon Matthew walked in, wondering why the halls were echoing with sounds of despair. He rushed into my arms as well, burying his head into my chest. Neither of the boys knew what had occurred but we shared pain as a family. After a while in silence, Alfred piped up.

"Daddy, what's wrong?" Alfred asked, his big blue eyes shining.

"Did something bad happen?" Little Matthew wondered.

"Boys…" I began, but stopped. What were the chances that either of them would grasp the situation fully? They didn't understand what war was or why it happened. All they knew was that their Papa was supposed to be due home in a month or so from another country far away. I had to slowly get the idea across to them: their Papa was gone and couldn't come back.

"Boys, your Papa is gone, right?" I asked, stroking Matthew's fair hair.

"Yeah, he went to the store and was gone too long so you locked him out of the house," Alfred suggested, recalling the weeks before Francis left.

I laughed before kissing his forehead, "No, I mean recently."

"Papa left for another country and you were sad then, too. He said he'd be back soon, that we'd see him again," Matthew said.

"Yes, darling. Well, you will see him again, but you'll be a lot older when that happens, hopefully. Your Papa left for another country because our country got into a big fight with another country, which is called war," I explained.

"Then why didn't the countries get a time-out?" Alfred asked.

"Countries don't get time-outs, but you sure do!" Matthew pointed out, poking Alfred in the cheek. "But what does Papa leaving have to do with 'war'?"

"Your father left for a war. He was so dedicated to his country that he decided he'd help our nation fight against the enemy. Francis left then…something happened," I started, trying not to get choked up.

"What happened?" both children chorused.

"Boys, your father died. He was killed by the enemy."

"…Papa's dead?" Matthew whimpered, his eyes watering.

"Papa can't be dead!" Alfred cried.

"I know it's unbelievable, but everyone dies eventually. Your Papa died in a hospital, thank god, and not on the field in his own blood. He had wounds everywhere on his body and died for his country."

"Who cares about our country? I want Papa!" Alfred cried before he and his brother burst into tears.

After the funeral, I took the boys to their favorite restaurant but none of us could eat anything. The car ride home was silent until Matthew began to sniffle. Then Alfred caught on and whimpered. Before long, the boys were again in tears, liquid leaving trails down their faces. I tried not to listen to Alfred's laments or Matthews prayers, but they kept invading my ears. Heh, invading. That's what Francis' regiment was trying to do before three hundred men were filled with lead.

At home Alfred latched onto my leg in the living room while his brother held my hand. I was trying to be brave for them, show them how to take sadness, but before long tears found their way into my eyes. We sat on the couch as Alfred made a point.

"Daddy, why are we sitting in the living room if Papa's dead?" he questioned.

"We're sitting here because your father's glad we're alive and weren't taken down with him," I said.

"Daddy, why did Papa die? Lots of people liked Papa, and we loved him. Why was he taken away?" Matthew whimpered. "Why can't we get him back?"

"….I don't know. Maybe he was done in life. His destiny was accomplished: he had married his sweetheart, adopted twin boys from a failing orphanage as toddlers, led a happy life, and then perished for something he loved. Well, more like two things he loved: us and his nation. He'd do all that he could to protect both, and he did. Now he's going to rest in a place of rest, waiting for us and watching over us," I tearfully believed.

"…So he'll see me when I put my hand in the cookie jar?" Alfred said, more panicked than ever.

"And me when I go to second grade?" Matthew added, clutching my sleeve.

"Yes, Mattie. And I think I'm going to see you first, Alfred. Stop doing that. Your Papa's going to see both of you and smile like he always did, OK?" I cooed.

"So it's like Papa's a cloud?" Alfred suggested.

"I think Papa's an angel," Matthew sighed, cuddling into my shoulder. "And Daddy, you're gonna be an angel too. But just not yet."

"Yes, your Papa's now an angel. And you're my angels."

This story is for anyone who lost a loved one. They're an angel, playing in the clouds, free of pain and worry, waiting to see you and watching you with happy eyes.