She holds his old gray shirt and breathes in memories, some stale, some sweet…

When will they come to her with news? Can it really be two hours now?

The phone call came just after dawn. No coffee yet, eyes filled with sleep.

“They’ll send someone,” he said.

“Just send him,” she says, meaning it, too.

Too young, this boy, to fight a war. Yet that’s what it is, isn’t it?

Drug addicts, homies, prostitutes…

Who waits for them to come home in the dark hours before dawn?

Mothers…? Wives…? Children…?

Do they hear the shots ring out and wonder if this time the bullet is serious?

Do they care as much as she who waits?