– Jaymon Bell (he/him)

The COVID-19 Pandemic really taught me that it is not physical distance that causes me to lose touch with my friends from the past. It is my failure to manage my time in an efficient manner in order to make a phone call or zoom session to catch up with them. I am never really too busy to pick up the phone and call someone.

The validity of that excuse faded as each day of quarantine exposed how much free time I actually had. It also was further eroded the more and more I saw Facebook posts from my fellow Veterans doing the 22 a Day Push-Up challenge for awareness on Veterans suicide. The statistic is that 22 Veterans commit suicide on a daily basis. The question kept lingering in my head, “Had I done anything to check up on my Brothers and Sisters in Arms during this pandemic?” That’s when I picked up the phone and called my Army Buddies that lived in the DMV.

I was able to reach five friends of mine that I have had since I attended Basic Training at Fort Benning, GA in the summer of 2002. After the phone call we created a Facebook chat in which we all decided to meet up at Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling the first weekend in June. I couldn’t help but remember how I felt that fateful summer in 2002 at Ft. Benning, Georgia during my drive up to see all of the guys. I was ending my first attempt at college after two successful years and two mediocre ones at the University of Tennessee. Most of the guys I was at Basic Training with were fresh out of High School and 1/3rd were still in High School and completing their training the summer between their Junior and Senior years.

My memories of Basic are vague at best but I do have a vivid memory of meeting one guy in particular, Jackson or “Jip” as I called him. You do not go immediately to training when you arrive at Fort Benning. There is a week in which you receive your first military haircut, vaccinations, and military clothing. That first week is such a strange time as you are in total limbo and trying your best to remember exactly why you want to be there. One evening that first week I was approached by, Jackson, who was 17-18 years old at the time, asking me in his slightly stuttering voice, “Hey, hey man, how do you shave?” I took out my shaving kit and showed him what I, as a previous once a week shaver, knew about the process. We now were faced with completing the daily task as fast as we could at 0445! Which did not add in any way to the discomfort. Less than 4 days later, Jackson and I were completely immersed in our new vocations and training every day on how to become Army Soldiers.

I lost touch with Jip until the late 2000’s when everyone was getting on Facebook. He had left the Army in 2015 and joined the Air National Guard. But as providence would have it, I was telling this same story around the table with my other basic training friends. One of the guys said, Jackson lives in Baltimore just a ways down the road from me. I then took out my phone to see if I still had his number in my contacts. I hesitatingly called the number I had and sure enough, old Jip picked up!! We caught up on things quickly and added him to the Facebook group chat that was started before this last get together. We agreed to have another get together so that he could see everyone again.

That first meeting of five turned into the second meet up in which we had two more veterans join us for dinner. What made this second meeting even more momentous was the presence of one of our Drill Sergeants! The one in particular who tormented us the most with push-ups and mule kicks during some of the hottest Texas days I have ever endured.

I am almost certain that this would not have taken place were it not from all the introspection caused by the COVID-19 quarantine. It was so rewarding to come together as brothers in arms after 18 years and hear the great stories of those of us with families and those with storied Army careers. We have all now re-established that bond that we forged so many summers ago. I hope and pray that none of us ever has thoughts that could lead to suicide. We at least all know that we have six other brothers willing to drop what they are doing and lend an ear to keep the enemy within at bay.

– Isa Nye (she/her)

My mother-in-law arrived last week, a box of ashes. In the last voicemail I have from her, she’s telling me about the train tickets she bought to come visit. She splurged on a sleeper car. But that trip would not happen. She felt ill. My father-in-law drove her to the hospital. She didn’t leave. I can still hear her voice on the phone, straining, pained, “I have Covid.” She died in the ICU. 

This wasn’t the way we thought she’d arrive for her last visit, not as ash. We gather around the box, and imagine her with us, picture her smile, her love. She was always so happy to be with us in our home. We picture her stirring soup in the kitchen, curled up on the couch with a book, painting a picture with the grandkids at the table. We picture her ready smile, her laughter, imagine her hugging us. 

She’d had to cancel her flight tickets in March, waiting to come once the risk of Covid dwindled. We saw the numbers drop in other countries, but not here. They just kept climbing. We stayed in touch with phone calls and face times, but it hurt to be apart when we so wanted to be together. By now the US has more deaths than any other country in the world. That fact drops down heavy on me, more deaths than any other country in the world, her death one among them. 

We didn’t get to be with her at the end. We spoke with a nurse who told us she would stay by the bed so my mother-in-law would not be alone for her last moments on earth. The nurse cried on the phone when she told us this. She had recently lost a family member to Covid too, and could not be at their side to say goodbye. She knew our pain. It was not the goodbye we imagined. We place the ashes on the shelf. We ache with the hole in our lives where she had once been. We picture her here. 

We put on the masks she sewed us to run our errands. We picture her sewing them. We dream of hugging family again, of mourning together. We moan momma in our minds. Momma, momma, momma. Momma, we miss you.

I admit I was quite angry when I first learned my wife Michelle and I had COVID– angry at Patty for having a birthday party, angry at the guests for arrogantly not wearing masks, angry at whoever it was who infected us, and even angry at Michelle for suggesting going to Florida in the first place.