Your worst nightmare

Driving to Chillicothe on a Thursday afternoon was like going back in time. After fighting through Methodistville and Worthmore traffic, we finally made it out of town on route 23 south. We passed Roundtown, and pretty soon we're surrounded by hills, so we know we're in southern Ohio. Route 35 goes east, deeper into the hills toward Jackson, where the Reed family comes from, crossing 23 at Chillicothe, the first state capital.

We take Bridge St. to Main St. to Walnut to Second, passing old brick buildings that look like they've been there since the canal was displaced by the railroad, then the highway, then the interstate. There are lots of workmen on the street, and the kind of old shops you don't see much in the city. I realize I haven't been out of town in a while. We park the car in a shaded street and follow a small group of dressed-up teenagers into the funeral home.

It's cool inside. Hundreds of people are lined up two-deep in the hallway, slowly inching forward into a long parlor lined with photos on easels, then down another hallway and into the main viewing room. Photos of Marines on a dusty street in Iraq and playing cards in the barracks; the high school track team posing for a team picture and running on a track; prom pictures, yearbook photos, baby pictures, two little boys with their young mom and dad, grown-up brothers with glasses and goatees in fraternity tee-shirts.

Marines in uniform stand guard beside the flag-draped coffin next to the two grandmothers. There's the step-father and some of his family, the step-mother and her daughters. College-age kids who probably went to high school with him, some of their parents, neighbors, local people who know his family.

The time goes quickly. We meet the in-laws, the mother he resembled, and now I'm embracing my friend from the men's group where we've shared a little pain and joy and stories over the years, but nothing like this. He knows how I feel about my kids. I ask him how he's holding up, we're both shaking like leaves, and he says, "You have no idea...your worst nightmare."

We stop on the way out and talk briefly with his other soldier son, who is now stationed stateside. We get a cup of coffee to go, drive back up the highway, and return to our everyday lives still having no idea.