I watched him take his last breath. The smell of iced cran-apple filled my nose. Maybe it was because I was eight months pregnant, but the smell overwhelmed me, consuming me in to an illusion of drunkenness.
 
I was not afraid. Calmly and quietly I walked over to his lifeless body and rubbed the back of my hand against his cheek. I leaned in close to kiss his forehead and subsequently ran my fingers across his cheek.
 
There was a rush of emotion, yet I could not cry. Ace was dead long before I walked in to his bedroom. He died the moment he stepped into the sands of Iraq. The guns, the grenades, the fear. He died back then. And ever since he came home, I’ve watched his body catch up to his mind, both slowly dying.