For the funeral of an old friend of mine, Omar Jones. Killed in Afghanistan. We caroused together back in the day. He would draw women as a military man, and I was the oddball who struck some of them as cute and funny. The army has just today published some information about his death. Non-combat related, under investigation, that's all. He wasn't an in-your face sort. The body is set to arrive in Delaware Sunday morning, maybe, and if if it can reach North Platte by Sunday evening the morticians may be able to clean up the signs of a violent death and have the funeral prepared for Monday, maybe. I need to be back east by Monday night anyway. He's survived by a wife and two kids. His parents are good friends of mine.
This shouldn't have happened. I've never believed in a way things are supposed to be. Still this is, sacrilege. An impossible train of events and human vanity's response to them causing lives to disappear. I can only grasp the strangeness of it and wonder what comfort anyone can possibly get out of seeing it as the natural order of things.
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