In the town of North Little Rock, Arkansas, moved from far away, Phil Jackson, who was station to Arkansas. After some time, the military shipped Phil off to the ‘sandbox’ as the locals titled it. His tour of duty was expected to be no longer than a year before he was shot seven times in the chest saving soldiers in his platoon.

He was shipped home in a box, swapped into a casket that donned an American Flag. Phil was 25 when he died, he having a younger brother who was seventeen named Miles. He spoke at his older brother’s funeral, spoke of his past. After dinner, how they’d pick out their plastic spoons at the ice cream parlor and eat the obvious. How he’d stolen a box of crayons his mother had taken from him when it was time for bed.

The memories of Phil had made his passing easier. Six Marines lowered him into the ground and seven shot their rifles into the air and Phil’s story was over.