It was a cold winter day, sudden flurries of snow plagued New England outside of my small suburban home in Abington, Massachusetts. There was an evident storm brewing. All was silent but the gusts of wind and the solemn crowing of the birds set up high on the power lines. I took slow and steady strides up my driveway taking my time to observe my surroundings. Ever since the news hit, I had done everything in my power to delay leaving. Now, I was faced with reality. I was going to war. I trotted up the worn brick stairs, thinking to myself about how I was going to break the news to my family. I stop to take a deep breath.
"This is it," I thought as I nervously trudged into my house.
The aroma of pine and fire wood seemed to seep through all the nooks and crannies in the old colonial looking house. My grandmother and my mom sat on the couch next to the Christmas tree, and my father was sprawled out in the chair next to the fireplace. They were all murmuring something, but quickly silenced when I entered the room. They all shared the same interested yet innocent face as they peered at me down from across the den.
"Hi," I greeted them as I slowly made my way to the middle of the room. They knew that something was going on with me. You could cut the tension with a butter knife. "Uh," I forced back a shy smile, "There's no easy way to tell you this, but yesterday I got a letter. I'm being drafted over-seas. I have three weeks to get everything in order." I could tell by the look on my mother's face that her heart had dropped down a mile into her stomach. My grandmother instantly started spouting tears from the corners of her wrinkled eyes.
My father stood up and gave me a hug, gripping me tight and kept telling me, "Stay strong bud." My mother and grandmother embraced me as well. All four of us huddled next to the fire and shared stories for the next couple of hours before I started to pack up.
Knowing that only in a few weeks time I would be heading to boot camp, I had to finalize all of my important documents. I handed a thick manila folder to my mother. There were papers hanging out of it every which way. I had just finished writing out my will. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that was almost pointless to trust my things off.
"I hardly have anything to will off in the first place," I muttered under my breath. Most of the stuff I included on my will was sentimental anyway. I spent the next week supporting fundraisers for war, partying, and spending as much time as possible in Boston. I felt as if going into war would protect the city which I was from. Boston was mine, and nobody could take that away from me. I was an American, a free American. After all, that was what we were fighting for, right? As days went by, I spent my time trying to forget about getting shipped out. My friends meant no harm by asking questions, but every time it was brought up, I felt like I had plummeted into a sea of ice with no chance of surfacing. Numb, the only word to describe the feeling. Everything would go blank. I would do anything to get away from the pessimistic mentality I had. I caught up with family often. My mother and grandmother threw a Christmas party a few nights before it was time to leave. It was the last real opportunity to say goodbye to my family and friends. We shared stories and ate delicious food for hours, drowning