The last mission

We weren't supposed to be there much longer. Just a few more missions, then home. That makes it harder somehow - the nearness of the end, the ‘almost made it’ of it all.

The bourbon catches the evening light as I pour two measures into crystal glasses I know you'd laugh at.

"Getting fancy in your old age," you'd say, that familiar half-smile playing at your lips. Wild Turkey, because some rituals don't change, even if the glasses do.

That morning plays back perfectly, like a signal that won't fade. The pre-mission checks. The quiet focus as we went through our gear. Nothing was special about it - nothing to warn us that this "one of our last" would become our last.

We'd been through worse. Those mountains had thrown everything at us, and we'd survived. Maybe that's why it felt so wrong, losing you on what should have been just another day, another mission, another step closer to home.

I see you in fragments now: how you'd hum under your breath during equipment checks, how you kept that wife of your family wrapped in plastic in your vest pocket. The serious look that would cross your face whenever you thought no one was watching.

Sometimes, I dream about changing it. In my dreams, I move faster, see clearer, and make different choices. But even in dreams, I can't outrun the truth - we were exactly where we were supposed to be.

That's what makes it burn, even now. There are no mistakes to blame, no wrong turns to regret. It's just war doing what war does: taking and taking until nothing remains but memories and survivor's guilt.

Your glass sits untouched across from me, full to the same level as always. Some nights, I swear I can see it ripple like phantom fingers lifting it to invisible lips. The golden liquid catches the last rays of sunlight streaming through my window, and for a moment, it looks like those Afghan sunsets we used to watch from the mountain peaks.

"Till Valhalla," I whisper, raising my glass to the empty chair. The words feel inadequate for the weight they carry, but they're all I have. They're all any of us have.

The last mission. God, how I hate those words. Because it wasn't supposed to be the last, was it? Just one of the last. Just another day. Just another mission.

I pour your bourbon out, slow and deliberate, watching it seep into the earth. I hope you're lifting a glass in that great hall where warriors gather. Save me a seat, brother. We have stories yet to share.

Till we meet again.

The sun sets, painting the sky in colors that remind me of those distant mountains where I left you. Tomorrow, I'll go back to living. It's what we do, those of us who remain. But for now, in this quiet moment between day and night, I let myself remember, grieve, and honor the truth of what was, what is, and what will never be.

It was just one of our last missions. Until it wasn't.