Two o’clock in the morning.  Three twenty in the afternoon.  10 AM.  Snow and ice.  Rainstorms.  Hot, oppressive humidity weighing on them like a blanket.  Picture perfect spring days.  Northern Montana.  Fort Lauderdale.  Texas desert.  Time, weather, locations, they all changed.  Every day, though, the messages stayed the same.

Sometimes it was a long drive from the base to the house.  Word would come in and two would go out, dress uniforms crisp.  Perfect.  Respectful.  Reactions differed.  Some had been doing this for so long, they were almost numb to it.  They could separate themselves from the messages they were carrying.  Others found it harder, having to pull the car over, physically ill from what they were having to do.  They would picture the faces of friends, their own family, getting the news.

We’re sorry to have to tell you.  Daughter.  Husband.  Mother.  Son.  Father.  Wife.  They titles were interchangeable.  Sometimes they would see you coming, instinct kicking in.  There was only one reason two soldiers would be coming to their door in the middle of the day.  They wouldn’t open, refusing to believe it’s real.  Not wanting to hear those words.  Killed in action.  From wounds sustained during battle.  Died a hero.  Protected their fellow Marines.

If it was the middle of the night, they would be caught off guard, sometimes unable to speak.  Sometimes, before a word was spoken, that dawning of understanding would light on their face and the screams would be so loud, neighbors would flip their lights on, peering out the windows to see what was going on, hands on their phones, ready to call the police.

Reactions were so varied, it was never something that could be predicted.  Stoic acceptance.  Loud sobbing, clinging to the uniform of the man in front of them.  Denial, refusing to believe it was possible.  Not to their loved one.  Dead fainting, the pain, the shock just too much for their mind to process, so their body just shuts down.

It was never the same.