He woke up early, and suddenly realized he had forgotten to make some needed photocopies over the weekend. That meant leaving for school a few minutes earlier. But even in his hurry, he took time to retrieve the newspaper and hurriedly review it--the sports section at least.

But wait, there's a picture on the front page. A formal picture of a young man. "I know that guy...Chase Whitham." Whoa, whoa, what's a formal picture of Chase Whitham doing on the front page of the paper? No...

He looks at the accompanying headline, "Marist grad killed in Iraq."

"You're kidding. Chase, dead in Iraq? Oh my goodness."

They played basketball together growing up. Baseball. Chase smiled a lot, a good kid, a good athlete. Now he's dead. They don't know if it was an electrical accident or a mortar attack. He's dead.

Who knows what his body looks like now. Who knows what his last words were, his last thoughts. He's dead.

He was only 20 years old.

I feel sort of guilty. He's dead, I'm alive. He'd been in Iraq fighting for his country, I'm living a comfortable life going to a University. His mom just lost her son forever (at least in this life). My mother still has all of her children.

Oh, the tragedy of war. The awfulness of it all.