The Ones Who Didn't Make it Back Home {a short story}

A few weeks ago, I was wandering around a cemetery with my mom and aunt. We were looking for the graves of my grandma's parents and sister, but I came across the headstones of twin brothers, both Marines, who fought in the Korean War. Neither of them died in war, but from the moment I stood over those graves, I knew I'd be writing a story about a brother who did.

Justin Moore's latest song already had story ideas scrambling around my brain, and the two inspirations combined nicely. As for the song, I'm imbedding the music video below, because obviously y'all need this, too. (Pardon the mentions of alcohol.)

Knowing the lyrics and having written this story, now just hearing the opening of this song makes my heart squeeze inside my chest. It's so beautiful, so strong, so real. While writing the story, I would pull up the song, put it on repeat, and write the words as they came.

Hope y'all enjoy. <3

It was a beautiful morning for a funeral. 


I rise early after hours of fitful sleep. Come to think of it, I haven’t slept much at all since I heard the news. I walk across the room and press my forehead to the screen door to watch the sunrise. Jake loved summer sunrises. 

Private Jacob Kemper. Small town hero. Twin to Justin. My date to prom. Everybody’s friend at the high school where our group of twenty-five graduated one rainy May afternoon. 

But today we’ll bury him. 

In a different room of the house, a staticky radio cuts on. Dad’s awake. The local broadcaster shares the details of Jacob’s memorial as I listen through the wall. Everyone who knew him loved him—and few didn’t know him. 

Just when I’m sure there isn’t another tear left in me, another round of sobs wracks my shoulders. The pain is just too much. 

Pressing a fisted hand to my mouth, I slide down the doorjamb to the floor, my face dropping to my pajama-clad knees. Jacob’s voice filters through my mind, followed by his laidback, free laughter. 

“Why?” My cracked voice demands, as my foot shoots out and slams into the other side of the doorjamb. 

He was too young to die. 


*


One last glance in the rearview mirror—to check the makeup that’s doing a pitiful job of disguising my bloodshot eyes—and I step out of the car into the oppressive heat. A cold day, complete with rain and cutting wind, would better suit the ache in my heart. 

But as I look around me, watch the droves of people walking solemnly toward the little white church and filing up the stairs, I decide maybe today’s sunniness does fit. Jake was the sunshine in all our lives. 

During the service many spoke or sang for the wonderful young man we’ve all lost, and everyone cried their tissues full. When a mutual friend steps up to the podium, he tells a story from the teenage years, when a dozen of us were caught in the yard of an abandoned house at two a.m. with no legitimate-sounding excuse. He imitates Jake’s unsuccessful attempts to convince the cops we were innocent, and I shake with laughter even as tears course down my face. Jake would want us to laugh. 

We stand as the pallbearers carry his closed casket down the aisle. They’re all from our graduating class, guys who knew Jake most of his life. Some were outcasts until he drew them in. Some thought of themselves too highly, until he taught them by example that all are equal.

Directly following the casket is Jacob’s twin, Justin, in his dress blues, with his mother clinging to his arm and his father on her other side. 

Fresh tears spring to my eyes as I behold Jake’s parents. I spent so much time at the Kemper home during my troubled high school years that the boys started calling me “Sis.” Not that I minded. I loved being welcomed into their happy home, where I was loved for who I was instead of judged for who I wasn’t. 

In the graveyard, I end up near the center of the circle a few yards from Jake’s immediate family. After seating his mother, Justin ducks out from under the tent and approaches me. 
When his eyes meet mine, I give up on holding myself together and just wrap my arms around his neck. He holds me, wordlessly, being the strong one although he’s even more broken-hearted than the rest of us. 

When he releases me, I keep my hand on his arm. “Are you okay?” 

Justin shakes his head without looking at me. “The preacher talked about sacrifice in there. Saying a bunch of words he isn’t even sure he believes himself. But he isn’t the one who rode in the belly of a plane with his brother’s body last week. He won’t walk into a house full of memories tonight and listen to his mother cry herself to sleep. He knows nothing about sacrifice.” 

I don’t draw away—just let him talk. The sharpness of his words is from pain, not anger. He just needs to let it out. 

The graveside service commences and we silently observe from the center of the crowd. More than once during the final words, I hear Justin’s jagged breathing. He’s trying so hard to hold it all in. 

The first volley of gunshots rings through the air. I jerk, even though I knew it was coming. Although I was closest to Jake, I grab Justin’s hand and squeeze my eyes shut as the second round rocks the ground. 

In the silence that follows the third shots, Justin’s soft cries cut to my heart. He’s letting himself grieve. Tears skid down my eyes, as happy memories of Jake fill my mind.

After the pastor says a final prayer and the gathering of friends disperses across the grass, I twist to look up at Justin. “You’re going to be okay.” 

He’s tugging the brave front back into place, but his eyes tell me he doesn’t believe it. He forces a smile that brings tears to my eyes. “Someday.” 

“You and Jake were the best friends I ever had.” I blurt the words out before I have time to over think them. And by the look that clouds his eyes and how quickly he pulls me back into his hug, I’m glad I did. 

“Ya know…” His eyes rove my face as I wipe my eyes. “Jake loved you as more than a little sister.” 

Fresh tears spill over and I’m draw back into Justin’s embrace. “I think I loved him, too.”

“Justin…” 

At his father’s voice, Justin draws away and turns to follow his parents out of the graveyard. “Stay in touch, Sis. I might need to just talk memories of him sometime.” 

“I’ll hold you to that,” I manage. 

I cross the grass and drop to my knees beside the open grave. As the voices of the remaining mourners drift away, I blow a kiss into the breeze. “I did love you, sweet Jake,” I whisper over his final resting place. “And I always will.” 

The ache is still in my heart and it may always be. But maybe that’s what being ‘okay’ means. Living with the hurt without letting it rule you. He’s a hero who deserves to be remembered. 



Thoughts on the story? The song? 

~Faith