Page 95 of Proof Of Life

My soul is finally at rest. So is my conscience.

“Hey, help me with this,” I pant, heaving the heavy cardboard box onto the bed.

West is just getting up for the day, although it's nearly twelve in the afternoon. He’s been awake for some time, but this is how he likes to start his day usually, unhurried and alone. I've seen him stare out the window for nearly an hour many times. I can only imagine what he's thinking about. Sometimes I hear him mumble to himself and I wonder if he's talking to God or some higher power he's made peace with.

“What's in the box?” he asks, sitting up with his back propped against the pillows.

“It's the box they gave us when they sent us home from Germany. Probably everything we had with us on base.”

He looks at it warily, like it’s full of landmines. And for him, it probably is. It's a box full of triggers. Mental and emotional landlines. I wouldn't even be able to go through it if he weren't with me. Unfolding the flaps on top, I pull out the first item, a picture album bound in black leather. I already know what it holds inside: twelve years worth of memories of me and West’s friendship—our life together in the service, trips we've taken on leave, pictures of his grandmother and my parents.

A little piece of home whenever we were homesick.

I know for a fact there're pictures of the Street Sweepers in there, and so does West. He shakes his head when I offer it to him and instead I just lay it on the bed. Next, I pull out a packet of paperwork, army legalese and mumbo-jumbo. There's another packet almost as thick, our discharge papers from the hospital, X-rays, and medical records. West's file is twice as thick as mine.

Wading through spare military gear and boots, I find something of interest. “Remember this?" I ask, holding out a rock. He smiles and takes it from me, inspecting the rough edges.

“I picked this up on our first day in the desert because it reminded me vaguely of a spearhead, which is a big thing here in North Carolina. I guess it reminded me of home.”

Looking at him, I can’t help but smile. You wouldn't know it from his tough exterior, but West is a very sentimental guy with a heart as soft as a marshmallow. Reaching into the box, I pull out a wide-neck beer bottle filled with Afghan afghani coins. Next is a tube of hand lotion that I can only assume is… holding it to my nose, I take a whiff and recognize the scent.

“Is this what you used to use to jack off with?”

“Give me that,” he curses, grabbing it from me and shoving it under his pillow, exactly where he used to keep it. Ignoring my knowing laugh, he asks, “What else is in there?”

Reaching my hand into the box, my fingers close around a plastic bag and I pull it out. It holds our dog tags. West grabs the bag from me and takes mine out, sliding them over his head. So I do the same with his, tucking them under my T-shirt. I'm smiling as I reach into the box and pull out a manila envelope. I don't recognize it, and I'm curious but kind of afraid to open it.

“What's that,” he asks.

“Beats me.”

“Open it,” he says, eyeing the packet.

I break the seal and peek inside. It holds a bunch of smaller envelopes, all sealed and addressed. One by one, I pull them out and read the names. Susan Lagaro. Marina Estevez. Michael and Michelle Jennings.

West isn't curious anymore; he knows exactly what this is. So do I. Goodbye letters, or death letters, whichever you want to call it. Final words from beyond the grave from our team to the ones they loved most. I hold the stack in my hands, tapping it against the box lid.

“What do you want to do with these?”

His throat slides, and he takes his time meeting my gaze. “We have to send them. They deserve to know what those letters say.” With a nod of agreement, I carefully place them back inside the envelope. “Where are ours?

Reaching back in, I pull out two letters, one addressed to Sergeant First Class Weston Wardell of the United States Army.

The second is addressed to First Sergeant Brandt Aguilar of the United States Army.

I've never seen his letter, but of course he addressed it to me, I'm the only family he has left. Mine however is a surprise to him.

“You made your final letter out to me?” He looks like he's about to cry any second, and I just might fall apart with him.

“Of course. Who else would I save my final words for?”

“Your parents?”

I shrug. “They know I love them.”

He flips it over and then pauses. “Can I open it?”

“I don't see why not.”

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