Tears of Life

Steven looked so handsome in his Air Force dress blues. A newly minted Lieutenant just out of flight school, my high-school sweetheart had obtained his dream.

My heart thudded as my father escorted me to the alter, the gathered guests and family standing, his side of the church dappled with blue. During the ceremony, he gazed into my eyes with such tenderness and passion I wanted to laugh and cry in the same breath. He was the handsome, uniformed knight, and I was the small-town girl from Oklahoma who felt like a princess.

After the kiss he led me down the aisle, walking me under ten gleaming swords held aloft with white gloved hands in salute. After punch and cake he whisked me away in his nine-year-old, blood red, 1966 Pontiac GTO, stopping a few miles outside of Wichita Falls to cut away the shoes and cans. We had four days before he had to report to duty at Langley AFB, but I didn't care. We had the rest of our lives together.

Despite my excitement, when we arrived in New Orleans, I was bone tired. I was thrilled to be the wife of the dashing Air Force fighter pilot, but I wasn't yet twenty-four, was inexperienced and afraid, and my heart was thudding harder than it had at our ceremony. Summoning my courage, I joined him in bed for the first time, my tiredness from an hour before forgotten.

I wailed softly for the second time as he grunted hard and deep, our bodies taut with passion, until with explosive exhales, we relaxed. Pursing my lips tight as he panted into my neck, I gripped his damp back fiercely and spilled tears of joy for my husband.

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Still dressed in his flight suit, Steven held my hand as I wailed long and loud, my sweaty face contorted with both physical and emotional pain. Molly was being forced into the world, but it was too soon! I wailed again as the doctor and nurses urged me to push, the activity in the room feverish as Molly fought for life.

His grip firm and reassuring, he laid his head against my shoulder as I gasped for breath, waiting with dread the next wave of pain. He whispered to me, reassuring me the doctor and nurses were doing all they could for our little girl, but his face was haunted.

I cried out again as my body strained. As I screamed, the doctor and a nurse reached between my legs, then moments later, lifted our little girl from behind the cloth shroud. The only sounds were the hurried footsteps, the barking of orders from the doctor, and my gasping sobs.

His grip tightened as we watched the medical staff work fanatically over the tiny, unmoving body. I called out, asking questions, but was ignored. I called again, and again, but received no answer. His grip tightened a little more as he stared, his face pale, his vivid blue eyes shining with unshed tears.

After a long moment, Molly was gently placed in my arms. She was so tiny. She was too young, her heart and lungs not ready for the burden of life. She couldn't cry, so we held her tight, and cried for her.

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Steven held my hand as I wailed long and loud, my sweaty face contorted with both physical and emotional pain. Matthew was struggling into the world, and I prayed for him, begging God that if he was going to take one of us, to please take me. I wailed again as the doctor and nurses urged me to push.

His grip firm and reassuring, I panted as I dreaded the next wave of pain. With Molly I'd gone into spontaneous labor and the delivery began with no time for medication, even before I was placed in a room. With Matthew, I'd elected not to use pain medication out of fear of harming our son.

I cried out again as my body strained, and moments later, the doctor lifted our baby boy. Despite my exhaustion and the lingering haze of pain, I felt the cold chill of terror grip my heart until Matt's lusty cry echoed in the room.

"Ten little fingers and ten little toes," a nurse reassured me with a smile.

As the nurses cleaned Matthew and wrapped him in warm swaddling, Steven leaned over and held me as we shared silent tears. Moments later, Matthew was placed in my arms as he stared up at me and his father.

"Hey," I whispered quietly as he gripped my finger. "You gave me quite a scare."

He said made no sound, only blinking and squirming as a tear dropped onto his perfect little forehead.

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Steven looked at me, raffishly handsome in his flight suit, his eyes hidden by his sunglasses but his smile bright. My return smile was sad as I drew a finger slowly over his face.

"Mom," Matt murmured behind me. With a sniff, I placed the photo back on the bookshelf and turned to face our son. "It's time." I nodded as I whimpered, struggling to hold my tears. Matt was so handsome, and dressed in his Air Force Academy dress blues, he reminded me so much of his father.

Inside the chapel was a sea of blue as Steven's friends and fellow airmen attended to show their respect. These men, and their wives, had been my family for the past more than twenty years. I chewed my bottom lip as Matt escorted me to our pew, his face tight with grief.

Steven's casket, draped with a flag, was all I was allowed to see of him. His body had been recovered from his downed F16, but it was so badly burned and scarred the casket had remained closed.

I knew this moment could come, and though I was still proud of my gallant knight, his death seemed so pointless, perishing in a foreign land, fighting a war in the Balkans whose outcome made no real difference to the United States.

After Steven was returned to the earth, Matt drove me home as I gripped the carefully folded flag tightly to my chest in a last reminder of what I once had. I was half the person I was only twenty days ago. Though Steven was no longer here share my grief, I had, and would continue, to cry enough for both of us.

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Michael looked so handsome in his Air Force dress blues. My rock after Steven's death, Michael and his wife had been there for me as I slowly recovered from Steven's death. Five years later, I'd been there for him as Sara battled cancer. Then, after her death, our relationship had become more than friendship.

My heart thudded as my son escorted me to the alter, his new oak leaves proudly displayed. The gathered guests were standing, the church awash in blue. The attendees were older than before, but I still felt like a princess. During the ceremony, he gazed into my eyes with such tenderness I felt like the same small-town girl from Oklahoma as I had so many years ago.

After the kiss, he led me down the aisle, walking me beneath twelve gleaming swords held aloft with white gloved hands in salute, the entire honor guard younger than my son. After punch and cake he whisked me away in his Porsche 911. We had two weeks before he had to report back for duty, which was plenty of time to spend our honeymoon in his hometown of Belfast, Maine.

We stopped in Dover to spend the night. I was thrilled to be the wife of the handsome Air Force Colonel, and while I as far more worldly than I had been all those years ago, my heart still pounded. For the first time since Steven was deployed to Kosovo, I would be sleeping with my husband.

I wailed softly as he growled deep in his chest, our bodies rigid with passion before we slowly relaxed. Pursing my lips tight, I gripped his sweaty back as he held me close, and for the first time since Steven's death, I spilled tears of joy for my husband.