June Still Sucks

Bruce was buried in the desolate and unkempt back corner of the lot under a small concrete block topped with a bronze tag with only a serial number. A pauper's grave. I had only ever visited it once, right after Daisy died. I had poured a bottle of urine on the ground right over where I figured his face would be. If someone had seen me urinating on it, I might have had some explaining to do.

After a few minutes of silent thought, I murmured my goodbyes. I had shed all of my tears last week when Mom and I were the only ones present when she was interred, despite reaching out to Daisy's family and so-called "friends."

I guess I figured that if 'Jolting Joe' DiMaggio could claim Marilyn's body after she divorced him and have flowers put on it for 20 years, I could bury Daisy and leave her a carnation now and then. The greyness around me faded, and I felt... neither sad nor happy, but like a blank classroom board waiting to be written upon.

As I walked back to the car, I noticed two more mourners a few rows away. One was a woman in a black dress; conservative, neat, and clean but somber. She had long blonde hair pulled back into a braid that reached her waist. Clutched to her side was a small, trembling boy in jeans with a loose-fitting camouflage jacket. His hair was short and dark.

I don't know why, and the last thing on my mind was to intrude on private grief, but I walked up behind them and looked at the marker.

Ryan G. Englert, Sergeant, USMC,

9 September 1990 - 10 September 2022

Husband, Father, Marine

He will be sorely missed.

I saw the symbols for a Silver Star and a Purple Heart.

The woman glanced at me, startled. She had the bluest eyes I had ever seen.

"Sorry," I mumbled. "I didn't mean to intrude."

The little boy looked up before she could say anything and said, "I miss him so much." His eyes were even bluer than his mother's, and I didn't know if he was simply stating a fact, looking for comfort, or crying for help. He must have been a handsome man if he took after his father.

I got down on my knee and fished in my pocket. I pulled out my notebook and pen, which I used far more than the NOTE function on my phone, and handed them to him.

"Here, son. Write him a note and tell him that. You can fold it up really tight and slip it into that crack in the ground right next to the marker. I'm sure he'll get it."

He hugged me, grabbed the pad and pen, and began writing. I got up, and his mother looked at me with gentle and sincere gratitude.

At that moment, I heard two quiet but distinct chuckles, a woman's and a man's, one in each ear. Then the woman's voice whispered, "Keep your promise."

I had the distinct impression June wouldn't suck for me anymore...

...

Fade to black...

Notes: The class action lawsuit was modeled after an actual eight-year-long lawsuit in Michigan. Daisy's surgery was modeled on a real-life situation involving my wife. Unlike Daisy, however, Mrs. ST1956 survived the operation and was able to complete her chemotherapy. She has been cancer-free for the last five years.