Yeah, I was also a sniper in Iraq. Never told that part to my wife.

We have carved out a pretty precarious balance of life here in Yuma with an autistic seven-year old and his big sister who has the occasional anxiety attack, so even if I wanted to I see no reason to rock that boat.

But there are days like this when I am on my way home in the 70°F afternoon, uniform shirt clinging to my skin, and that inner reel going of the latest traffic accident I helped clear up … then it hits me:

What if I died, suddenly? What if Carrie did?

How would the survivor deal with the children, especially if it was Carrie—unemployed, depressed, you name it. She is a fighter, that’s why I married her, but there’s only so much one woman can do.

I suppose her stepfather would help out, if she’d let him give her some of those money he harvests every morning in his money garden (that’s the biggest IT contractor in California, for you).

But money is not all.

What would Michael say if I died here now, on the way home?

How would he, without speech, mind as a two-year old—how would he understand? Cope?

Would he?

I suppose it’s karma for the job I had in Iraq that I get to think about that now, or maybe it’s just my PTSD flaring up again. Or both.

The only thing you can do with a thought like that, no matter what religion or savings you have prepped—it’s to shoot it down right away.

Tell yourself, it’s that cave man in you, looking for threats, especially if he was in a helicopter outside of Bagdad that was shot down by some kid with an RPG-7 and all hands died except him. Or whatever hit you in your life.

But tell the cave man (or woman) to shut up.

Because they ain’t helping with thoughts like this, once you have filled out your insurance papers and maybe donated to a church.

It’s just noise.

But like any good shooter it takes time to learn to get them all the moment they pop up.

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