Numb
The old man pats her on her shoulder once. He walks away, slowly, steadily; his feet tapping an uneven rhythm on the hard-packed soil. It all slowly recedes into the background. She stands on an arid hillside, marked with three or four dozen little piles of stone. Each cairn represents a body, lowered into this mass grave. The old man no longer remembers which grave belongs to which soldier. In her hand, she grips a dented set of dog tags. She squeezes her hand so tightly, her knuckles are turning white.
Her fingers are numb. Blunt fingernails dig into her palms, but she doesn't feel any of it. The hot desert wind stings her eyes as she begins to pick her way down the slope. Just pick one. A tiny voice inside her whispers. Pick one for him. She crouches suddenly, blinking her eyes against the harsh wind. Her fingertips uncurl from the tense fist, just long enough to brush against the topmost stone of a cairn.
The dog tags chime at the end of their chain, spun by the wind into a helicopter-like propeller. "Eric." She whispers the name, and closes her eyes. She's already mourned for so long.
Funny, how now, confronted with his grave, she feels nothing. No anger. No pain. No sorrow. There is no closure here. Nothing but emotionless piles of rock.