Don't want to be dead

I've never delivered a eulogy.

My 1979 Chevy pickup has me driving into Bozeman with its downtown spruced up bright and cheerful for the holidays. It’s cold outside. I’ve been battling a cold for three days to make matters worse. Savor this time of the year, people say. They’re convinced there’s something special about it.

Now is not the time for a cold. Not sure there's a good time, but being in the thick of one on a day like today isn’t sitting right. This is my first visit to this town. The deep winter chill isn’t affecting Montana’s charm. I can see why Danny moved here a few years back.

“You gotta come out in the summer,” Danny texted last October. “We’ll take a raft down Gallatin one day and hike up Bridger the next.”

Sounded like a good idea. Danny had a knack for putting us in the mix. Been that way since grade school. I couldn’t rise to my own defense if asked to explain why I declined. Not on a day like today.

Pulling into Danny’s driveway, I button the top of my white shirt and make sure my tie is snug. I haven’t worn a suit in years; hate the way it feels. Why do people dress like this?

I kill the ignition, close my eyes, and sit in silence. My head’s doing everything in its power to avoid my heart.

The front door opens, and out comes Mandy. Danny met her after his first tour in Iraq — they married right away. She gave birth to Hugh while Danny was out on his second tour. I remember how odd it was to hold him before his father. The same thing happened with Eleanor, born while Danny was on his third and final tour. The tour that hurt his back and changed things.

Mandy’s wearing all black. Hugh follows behind her, holding Eleanor’s hand, trying to be tough. They’re not even teenagers yet. I hug Mandy and load the kids into the truck. It’s too damn cold to walk.

“Are we going to see Daddy?” Eleanor asks once we’re all buckled in.

Danny never talked about how he hurt his back. He didn’t want to talk about much of anything after that last tour. The doctor prescribed Percocet to help with the pain, which seemed to help for a spell. Can’t say it was worth it in the end.

We meet everyone at the church. Danny’s parents, siblings, and close friends have already found their way inside. I escort Mandy and the kids to the front pew as a middle-aged woman softly plays the piano. With them situated, I make my way up to a seat behind the pulpit.

Based on his last text message, Danny seemed to think he’d run out of options. Maybe he had. Hard not to wonder if he could’ve settled it some other way.

A hymn is sung, followed by a prayer, and then an old man in a gray suit tells us the order of things. First up is a kid in uniform who served with Danny. To hear him tell it, Danny’s a hero to those boys. An aunt speaks next, and then Danny’s sister sings a song.

I can’t look at Mandy while his sister sings. I already know.

I get up to speak and pull a paper from my jacket. I’ve never delivered a eulogy. I pull the microphone close, clear my throat, and look at the paper. It’s the last text message Danny sent.

Tell everyone I’m sorry. I don’t want to be dead.