Dulce et Decorum Est

By Katie Williams
Collegian Editor
September 26, 2007

In memory of Corporal Terry Allen, 1986 – 2007.

“Seven was too many,” Alex thought, after tripping on the wet pavement. She had caught herself just in time and stood up straight, adjusting her black skirt.

Alex tried to shake the last remnants of last night’s drinking out of her head as she approached the front of the church. On either side of the path leading up to the steps, bikers held American flags and stood solemnly, without umbrellas, in the rain. Alex felt like running. She was not good with funerals.

Inside the church, a man held out a basket towards her, filled with yellow ribbons.

“Would you like one, Miss?”

‘Crap,’ Alex thought. ‘I don’t remember what those are for. Is it for supporting the war or the soldiers? I can’t support the war, but of course I support the…’ She raised her eyes down the aisle of the long church, to the brown wooden box sitting under the altar.

“Yes, I’ll take one,” she said, reaching into the basket.

Alex found herself being shuffled into a line of people. A boy, a boy she recognized, got in line behind her.

“Hey Alex,” he said.

‘Oh God, what’s his name?’ she thought.

“Hey,” she said. “How are you holding up?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I haven’t seen him since we graduated. But he was such a great guy… Jesus, he was such a good guy.”

Alex nodded, and turned back around. The line was moving quicker than she would have liked, and she was now at the front.

She walked up to the casket, trying not to glance inside. She didn’t want to remember him as a pale, cold figure, sleeping without breathing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and then turned and walked away, breathing fast and sniffing.

Cold and damp, the darkness of the church sympathized.

williamsk1@lasalle.edu