Laura Margaret Walker

West Point, 2003

Be Thou At Peace

Posted by Sara Warner on August 18, 2011:

Laura, Six years ago I was in Minnesota. I was getting picked up by a good friend of mine who worked with me at Ruby Tuesday in St. Paul. He was driving me to the airport so that I could go home to see the fam. We were cracking jokes. It was a good day. We were in the car. I was in the passenger seat. We'd just gotten through some funny story I can't remember. My phone rang. It was mom. As always I picked up and laughed. "Hi Mom!" Little eye-roll involved. She called all the time back then. But she didn't sound happy on the other end of the line. "Sara," she said, "Laura's gone." Silence. So here I was in the car. And I didn't get it. "Huh?" I replied, confused. A sinking feeling developed in my gut as I leaned forward the way people do in the car whenever there's something being said on the other end of a telephone line. It's like you try to curl your entire body up into the receiver. It's like you try to get away from wherever you are so you can hear more privately. "Laura's been killed," she said. And I remember almost laughing. Or maybe I did laugh. Because I was thinking: "haha! What in the Hell kind of ridiculous stupidity is going on, now?" I didn't believe her. It was so assinine to me. It was so ridiculous. What, huh? Laura's been killed? Laura's dead? That's just silliness. That doesn't happen. But it did happen. And you were killed. And the third time she said it, it sunk in. And I remember that I didn't cry. I just know that my whole face went white and I know that I sat there dumbly in my car not knowing what in the hell to do with myself. I didn't even know how to begin to process that information. I don't remember much immediately after that, Laura. I just remember that my mom had to tell me three times that you were gone for me to realize it wasn't a joke. And I remember after she hung up the phone I turned to my friend and said: "... My cousin's been killed in Afghanistan." So then there I am. Walking like a zombie through the airport because I didn't really feel like I was on earth anymore. It was one of the most disorienting things ... no, it WAS the most disorienting thing that ever happened to me. People everywhere. The moving walkways. Sound and smell and sensation surrounding me and I was numb to all of it. I just stood around my gate and stared at nothing. And thought nothing. As a long sufferer of anxiety I distinctly remember my brain shut down. I remember being blank. Nothing. At the funeral everything was a blur. I remember walking up to the Chapel and there were your brothers ... I don't think I've ever seen anything more heartbreaking in my life than turning that corner and seeing those two young men in their uniforms greeting people as they came to the Chapel. Brian and I were always very close... he's like my brother. I know I was always much closer to Brian than to anyone else in your family, I feel. So there was something about walking up to greet him that hit me harder than anything else had. And then the time went by. And I never stopped thinking about it. Your funeral shook me to my core. I was smothered with rage and terror. I started to have anxiety attacks at night ... terrified of death, and what it meant, and the fact that it could just take me or anyone I loved at any moment. Afraid about what if there isn't a God. What if that's it. A blip and its done. And for a long time I was the worst person in the world to start a political conversation with. I held the administration personally responsible for your death for at least one year following it. I had a lot going on inside and I never really told anybody about it. I never felt comfortable. You see, you and I weren't ever close for all that we'd see each other every year. And I dealt with a lot of guilt because one of the last memories I have of you is a Christmas dinner (I think it was Christmas) where you were making place settings with names on them ... and you guys spelled my name wrong. And I remember being very angry about it. I remember thinking you didn't care for me much - but then, I thought at that time that the whole of dad's side of the family didn't care for me all that much at all. So I think the last moments I shared with you while you were alive were moments where I was angry ... and where I felt slighted. So I felt guilty. I felt for a long time like I didn't deserve to mourn your loss because I'd never been much involved in your life in the first place. For the first five years following your death I mourned Brian's loss, and Dunc's loss, and Aunt Valerie and Uncle Keith's loss and Audrey's loss but I didn't mourn mine because I didn't feel like I deserved to say I lost something. Six years later. It's August 18, 2011. And I don't know what to say. I can't say that we knew each other well because we were never close. But I can say that I loved you. That I still do. That you're family. That you're a hero. That you were a marvelous human being dedicated to the service of country and to setting a great example to those around you. I can and will say that you've influenced my life. Because I can say that for all that we weren't close while you were alive, I regret it and wish we had gotten to know one another better in all of the years now that you've been gone. So I've worked hard to never be distant with anybody in my life ever again. I've worked to get to know everyone in your family more. To cherish the people I'm related to. To enjoy my life because it could be over any time. I love your family. I love everything about them and you'd be so proud of each and every one of them. Devoted, wonderful people who bring light to the world with every second they're in it - and they miss you terribly and all the time. There's a dullness in my chest when I think about you and I know it's because all the guilt is still there. I still feel like I didn't earn the relationship with you required to mourn you properly. I still feel sometimes... most times, like I'm not entitled to be sad. But I am sad, Laura. And I wish you were here every day. And I miss you even if you spelled my name wrong. I'm sorry for being really angry about that back in the day ... Who gives a crap about an h, anyway, right? I'm sorry for all the times I thought you didn't care. You probably did. I'm sorry for not being closer. I'm sorry for not sending you a care package while you were overseas or a letter. Or something. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you aren't here. I'll never forget you and I love you. Rest in Peace, and wherever you are, keep lighting it up with your smile. I cried for you today. And this time it was for my loss.

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