It was February 10, 2008. I remember we were running late and I almost felt like making him later so he could miss his flight for some reason. But we were speeding and trying to get there.
Every time he left, I never looked back and this time I looked back. I remember his strut and thinking he looked so athletic the way he was running towards his flight. And I just thought, “Don’t you go.” And that’s it.
He was killed on March 10th.
You’re aware that they’re dressed up and coming to your door. You know what it is.
We stared at each other for a bit. I gave them a look like, “Don’t come in yet.” And we stood there for quite a while until I said, “Okay, come in.” And I told them to have a seat and then we waited another long while. And they started reading.
It was very structured. And then it was just quiet and it felt like somebody pulled my soul out of me. And we sat in silence for another while.
It was just funeral after funeral. My husband and four other guys were killed all together, and for some reason, it got a lot of media attention. We had a lot of ceremonies. It was hard because you had to go to all these things. And I was very understanding and appreciative of what they were doing to memorialize him. But it was very exhausting emotionally and physically. I was just tired.
The outpouring of support was just unbelievable. I had meals every day. I can’t help but remember how it affected other people because of the way they looked at me. And some would just collapse in front of me and I didn’t understand it. Now I understand. The children, too, they remember it. My friends’ children go visit the tree still. It was traumatic for them too.
They sent all of his personal belongings in twelve black trunks by mail from Kuwait.
I received everything and I didn’t know what to do with it. I just made sure I preserved everything. I wouldn’t move out of my house that he bought me because I didn’t want to alter the closet in the way he left it—where his shoes, his dirty clothes had been, how his clothes were hung, his jewelry.
It was him. It had his smell. His hands were on it. I tried to live in the past as if he were still there. Luckily, one of my good friends packed me up and moved me because it was not healthy. Finally over the years I consolidated what I figured I should keep.
They returned everything. These things were what was on him—the last things he touched with his hands. So I guess it just makes me feel close to him still.
This is my story and I think I’ve healed. Now looking back, I’ve finally given myself the time to mourn.
For a long time, I don’t think I was letting that process take place. But that’s natural when you go through something so traumatic. As time passed and Vivianaiy got older, I wanted her to grow up as a survivor and not a victim.
