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I can remember when Dad passed away. I remember going into town and drinking with his friends and explaining to my mother why I couldn't come home. She couldn't seem to say anything that would make me feel any better. Before she left she asked me what I intended on doing with my life, if I was just going to stay here and waste away.

I told her I thought about jumping a train and heading to New York and enlisting in the Army. Even now I'm not sure if it was the alcohol or a conscious decision to join up. Her pale blue eyes filled with salty wet and she walked on out of that bar. I went back to drinking. Guess it doesn't really matter if the glass is half empty or half full when you've got a full bottle sittin' across from you.

When I got home later that night I stumbled through the front door. I stopped to admire the white paint peeling from the wall and pressed my fingers against the wood hidden underneath. I can remember that texture even now and I always thought of it when I was clenching my rifle over seas. Those old familiar grooves. I could hear my brother breathing as I walked past our room. He lay under a single blanket on the same bed we slept in when we were kids. Should've said goodbye then. Instead I grabbed up some paper and a pencil and sat at the old oak kitchen table and began to write my farewell.

I still regret that night.