I dedicate this to those who protect and serve. I dedicate this to those who wait at home, hoping their loved one comes returns safely. I dedicate this to those wearing the badge, who love someone wearing a badge, who have been hurt by the hate that has been stirred up and made so popular lately. It is not okay and it is not acceptable. Hate begets hate.

The day dawned calm and beautiful. Denise stepped on to her front porch, cradling her steaming cup of hot tea carefully. Tiptoeing over to the large wicker chair, she curled into the oversized cushions and pulled the afghan tighter. The peace of the early morning was her quiet time, her reflecting time, the time before the busyness of life overtook her and overwhelmed her. Today was going to rank as one of the worst. She needed this time to bolster her spirits to help get through the day. She tucked her feet under her rear and laid her head on the back of the chair.

How do people feel this much hate for one another? I don't understand. We aren't living in the 1890's. Hell, we aren't living in the 1940's. This is the 21st century. People are supposed to be judged on the content of their character, not on the color of their skin or the career they have chosen and they sure as hell aren't supposed to openly promote hate. It's celebrated in the mainstream though. Used as entertainment. And now… Denise choked on a sob. She whispered, "You can't go down this rabbit hole. Stay strong." She closed her eyes and sipped her tea. You'll stand beside Trista and get her through today. That's what sisters-in-blue do. She tilted her cup up to drain it before going inside to get ready.

Both women sat side-by-side in the front of the church. Trista clutched Denise's hands. "This just doesn't feel real." Denise felt the pain stab through her heart. She stared straight ahead with tears streaming down her cheeks. She agreed, this was unreal. There was no way that Trista's husband was in that wooden box. Her own husband should not be standing in the honor guard along that railing. She wished she could see him through her tear-filled vision. The officers were all blurring together. Their uniforms, so crisp and starched, black bands of mourning around their badges standing out so clearly to others in the room. Neither of the women in the front row took notice. They didn't realize that there were uniforms of so many colors and shades; grey, blue, brown, tan, navy, blue with a burgundy stripe, grey with black pants… The sea of uniforms stretched through the church and narthex, across the parking lot and down the street. Neither Trista nor Denise knew or cared. The sat and held each other as they stared at the shiny wooden box.

The priest spoke. The police chief spoke. Trista's uncle spoke on behalf of the family. Neither woman heard a word as their entwined fingers clutched tighter and tighter. Finally, finally the honor guard was moving. The shiny wooden box was rolling down the aisle between the rows of saluting officers. Slowly the women rose and followed, leaning on each other as they walked. Denise didn't even notice that they were ushered into a limousine. They sat in silence as the cars made the slow trek from the church to the cemetery. They curled their arms around each other as they watched the back of the hearse open and the honor guard removed the casket. When did I stop calling it a wooden box? Calling it a casket makes this real. I don't want it to be real. Once the officers had walked away, Denise and Trista stepped out of the car. They followed the path that the men had taken until they reached the chairs that were already set up.

It was sitting here that they watched the flag that was draped across the casket get folded with the proper pomp and circumstance. I wonder who decided the official proper way to fold a flag? How many times did they fold it incorrectly before they found the "correct" way? Why am I thinking about this now? When the flag was presented to Trista, Denise heard her thank the officer. Her voice broke as she clasped the material to her chest. Denise wrapped her arm around the slim shoulders of her friend, pulling her tight just before the first firing. "Ready. Aim. Fire." BANG. "Ready. Aim. Fire." BANG. "Ready. Aim. Fire." BANG. Seven guns. Three times. Twenty-one gun salute. My heart cannot taken this. Dear God. How are we supposed to…

The radios of all of the officers present crackled to life. "…has answered his final call. Officer… is 10-42, permanently." More tears streamed down her face as she heard his badge number announced over the air. To hear him listed 'off-duty, permanently' crushed her heart. Neither woman made a sound as they cried silently. Their heartbreak was private. They would not wail. The officers around them were experiencing similar pain. They would not add additional grief by screaming.

The line of well-wishers began to file past. They shook hands, kissed cheeks, gave condolences, and promised to visit. Trista nodded blindly. Denise kept her hand on Trista's back, rubbing gentle circles. Seconds turned to minutes. Minutes turned to an hour. Finally the line dwindled down to the last few stragglers. Denise helped Trista to her feet. "I'll leave you to say your final…"

Trista's grip tightened. "How do I say…? I can't."

Denise gently kissed the clammy mocha forehead of her best friend. "You tell E that you loved him and that he took your heart with him. You tell E that you will honor him by learning to live the rest of your life with his memory as your company. Know that I am right over here." Releasing Trista's shoulders, she stepped back and watched her take the hardest steps of her life alone. She heard Trista murmuring. When she collapsed on top of the casket, Denise picked her friend up by the shoulders and helped her to the waiting patrol car. Now it was time to face the officers from the precinct that were waiting at Trista's home with food.

Over the course of the next month Denise and Trista spent at least part of everyday together. Some days Denise would have to come over and physically pull Trista from her bed and place her in the shower. Some days they would just sit on the porch in silence or quietly sharing memories of times past. There were rainy days that they sat on the couch and watched "chick flicks". A few times, Denise was able to coerce Trista into going for a walk at the zoo or a local park. Twice a week they visited the cemetery with fresh flowers. Trista would sit on the grave and talk to E while Denise would give her privacy, walking to another area and waiting on a bench.

"I don't know what I would have done without you. You've been my rock." Trista said one day.

"We have to support one another." Denise said quietly. "We've always been here for each other. Nothing is going to change that."

They were sitting on playground swings in the park, taking in the sunshine on a warm afternoon. "People were always surprised when we were out together. They'd watch us because we got along so well together. No one seemed to believe that a white couple and a black couple could be best friends."

"That's their issue, not ours. And I don't care what anyone else thinks. When Mom had her stroke, you were there for me. You sat with me at the hospital, rode with me because the guys couldn't get off right away. We've celebrated promotions together. Hell, you and I have celebrated more holidays together than we've celebrated with the guys because of their schedules! No wonder we're closer than sisters." Trista smiled. "At least you know I'm telling the truth. We see each other for the people inside, not what's on the outside."

From the expression on Trista's face, Denise knew what was coming. "That's such a good thing, too. You have the worst fashion sense sometimes. Do you remember when you put on those thigh-high hot pink…" Before they knew it both of them were laughing so hard they were crying. "It feels so good to laugh."

"What are friends for?"

Two months later, Trista's birthday was approaching. Denise didn't want her to spend it alone. Her husband was working, so she took her friend out to a nice restaurant. "I appreciate you doing this. The actual day will be hard. I just want to spend time by myself, remembering E and what we had."

"I'll respect that." Denise agreed. "I just want you to remember that you are not alone. Don't let the depression get hold. Mourn and be sad, but don't let it overwhelm you."

Trista nodded. "I know I am loved. Realize that you cannot understand this loss though." Denise nodded sadly. "I pray you never do." Trista continued somberly. "His smell has faded from his pillow. At first, I could curl up and hold on to that every night. Now that is even gone. I have his pictures and our wedding video, but his scent is gone. I can't hold him anymore. That makes his loss so much more profound. So real." Trista's hand shook as she raised her glass of water. The tears brimming in her eyes did not fall. "Those nights, he'd have one of those calls that they don't want to talk about. You know that it's rough. He'd crawl into bed, curl his arm around me, his hand cradled right here," she pressed her fist between her breasts, "and bury his face against the back of my neck. He found his comfort, his solace in holding me. I loved that feeling. My big strong E, the man that so many others depended on, held on to me, ME, when he needed to find his strength. When he needed to let go. He would slowly relax into me and fall asleep like that. Other nights he held me against his chest, sleeping against his strength. I miss those nights. I want those nights back." Denise sat silently. What do you say in response?

The women parted ways, promising to check in later in the week. Denise headed home to her husband. Home to my husband. I'm one of the lucky ones, aren't I? She unlocked the front door, dropped her keys in the bowl on the stand just inside the foyer, and locked the door behind her. She hung up her coat and tiptoed into the living room. Leaning against the doorframe, she couldn't help but smile at the man sprawled across the sofa. He'd been so excited about watching the Flyers' game without interruption and here he was sound asleep with the lights of the game glowing across his face. His head was thrown back, his mouth gaped open allowing soft snores to escape, and his arms were spread almost as wide as his legs. The blond curl that draped across his forehead was the pies-de-resistance. Denise slid onto the sofa, pulling one of his arms around her shoulders after she draped an afghan over their legs. Closing her eyes, she thought, Perfection.

Trista sat at her kitchen table. Two places were set. Candles were lit. A cupcake sat near her plate with a single unlit candle. She struggled to eat the chicken cordon bleu but she forced another bite into her mouth. A single tear rolled down her cheek. E always fixed chicken cordon bleu for my birthday. We ate by candle light. Then he would take my hand and lead me… Trista nearly choked on her dinner.

"I can't do this. I can't!" Trista jumped up so fast the chair clattered on the floor. She grabbed her plate and ran to the kitchen, throwing the chicken in the trash and dropping the plate in the sink. "I'm sorry, E! I'm sorry! I just can't do it! I miss you so much! This hurts too much!" She turned and went back to the table, snatching the cupcake from the table and whirling back towards the kitchen. Before she could dispense with the sugary confection, the phone rang. "Denise, I told you…" The broken whisper stopped Trista mid-sentence. She backed into the nearest wall and collapsed onto the floor. "No, oh, baby. No." The cupcake slid to the floor and rolled away leaving a semi-circle of icing in its wake. Trista didn't care. She closed her eyes and clutched the phone. "Hold on to something. Anything. I am on my way."

Denise was sitting on her sofa watching a movie. I feel so bad that Trista is alone tonight. I know she wants to think back to the times she and E shared together but it wouldn't be the first time she and I celebrated a holiday together. The guys worked so many. She hugged a pillow to her chest. Dean's scent filled her nose. It was so comforting on nights like this.

She didn't expect the headlights that lit up the room. Confused, Denise walked over to the window. As soon as she looked at the driveway, her heart stuttered. Seeing the uniformed men getting out of their cars only meant one thing, the one thing she couldn't handle. She ran for the phone and dialed the one number she could trust. "T-t-t-rrr-Trista…Trista…They are getting ready…They are knocking on the door." The tears began to well in her eyes. Her voice cracked.

Hearing that her best friend was coming gave her the strength to open the door. "Mrs. Ambrose, there is no easy way to say this." Denise held on to the interior and exterior doorknobs as she maneuvered the door wide enough to let the men inside. She leaned her head against the door, signaling to the men that she knew what they were there to say. "Your husband was…" She held up her hand.

"Just give me a minute." She whispered. She tripped and stumbled to the living room where she picked up the pillow and clutched it to her face again. She inhaled his scent once more before screaming into the cotton barrier.

Large muscular arms wrapped around her, hugging her as she wailed. "We need to make official notification." someone said.

"She knows. We don't need to say anything." The man holding her spoke quietly as he stroked her hair. "Just let her cry."

The officers heard the car pull up and the running footsteps. One of them opened the door but was not ready for the little woman who barreled past him. Trista raced into the house and to Denise's side. She curled into the sobbing woman's side, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. "I'm here. I'm here."

"This isn't real. It can't be real." Denise sobbed.

Trista cried with her. "Oh, honey. It's a living nightmare. I know."

"But I just talked to him. We had talked and said…" Denise laid her head on Trista's shoulder.

One of the men tried again. "We need to give her the official notification."

Denise shot up from the sofa. "GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" She began screaming. "I don't want you here! Leave! Just get out! Get out!"

Trista pulled her back down to the sofa and wrapped her into a firm hug. "Why don't you see yourselves out? I think she needs time to process this without people staring at her. I've got her and I'm not leaving her alone."

One of the officers nodded and said, "I'll be on the porch. You'll have an officer with you…"

"I'm familiar with the process." Trista snapped.

The officer tucked his head. "My sympathies, ma'am." He trailed his collogues and closed the door quietly.

"We know how this goes, honey. It's a shame, but we do." Tears streamed down Trista's cheeks. "You didn't leave my side. I won't leave yours." The women sat and cried together.

Their request was honored for a period of time. Then the officer on the porch quietly returned. He came into the room and sat on a chair, holding his hat loosely in his hands. "I really hate to do this, but they are going to need me to bring you in for an identification and to let you know what is going on with the investigation." Trista raised an eyebrow. He gave her a sad acknowledgement.

"Officer Rollins, are you saying…" He just nodded. "Just like my E." He nodded again.

Denise wailed. "E? Dean? Why? Why? Why? I just don't understand." Trista held her tighter as the tears cascaded down her own face.

The sun rose on a beautiful, crisp morning. Denise stepped on to her front porch, cradling her steaming cup of hot tea carefully. Tiptoeing over to the large wicker chair, she curled into the oversized cushions and pulled the afghan tighter. This day was going to be impossible to get through. She tucked her feet under her rear and laid her head on the back of her chair as she closed her eyes and sipped her tea. Trista will be with you. Trista will help you put one foot in front of another. Don't think about the hate. The hate that took Dean from you, that took E away from Trista. This makes no sense. People killing because of someone telling them police are bad. The police, the people that are willing to protect and serve. I am baffled.

"Mrs. Ambrose, why are you sitting outside in this cool morning air?" A gentle voice interrupted her musings.

"This has always been my quiet time. When Dean was off he would sleep in and if he was working, well, I would sit out here and watch the sunrise after he left or sit here and wait for him to come home. I guess that won't happen again, will it?" Denise opened her eyes met the concerned gaze of Officer Rollins. "I'm okay. I've been through this with my best friend. I know how all of this works." She stood up, clutching the afghan. "I'll go get ready."

His hand on her elbow gave her pause. "Everyone grieves in their own way. There's no right or wrong way. Both E and Dean were well respected men and officers. I knew them both."

"Thank you."

Denise felt Trista's hands holding hers as they sat in the front of the church. She whispered, "This just doesn't feel real." How were both of their husbands gone? How had they both been killed because of the uniform they wore? The honor guard stood along the railing. The officers all blurred together. Their uniforms made a cavalcade of colors, grey, blue, brown, tan, navy, burgundy stripe… The sea of uniforms once again stretched through the church, across the parking lot, and down the street.

The priest and police chief spoke. Dean's brother spoke on behalf of the family. Then Denise blinked and she was sitting in the cemetery looking at her husband's flag-draped coffin. How did this happen? How is this real? Denise closed her eyes and prayed that she wouldn't scream out loud. She knew she was going to break. When she opened her eyes, and officer was handing her a stiffly-folded flag. Clutching it to her chest she stiffened as she heard the words, "Ready. Aim. Fire." BANG. Denise couldn't help but jump. "Ready. Aim. Fire." BANG. She jumped again. "Ready. Aim. Fire." The scream that she had tried to hold back escaped. She held the flag to her mouth to muffle the sound.

The radios of all of the officers present crackled to life. "…has answered his final call. Officer… is 10-42, permanently." Denise let out another cry and collapsed into Trista's arms. Both women were inconsolable. They sat together, cried together, bracketed by officers who kept the other mourners at bay. These women had endured so much. Their grief was so public.

Seven months passed. It was the anniversary of E's death. Trista had a bouquet of flowers wrapped in a blue ribbon. When she stepped out of her house, she wasn't surprised to find Denise waiting for her. Officer Rollins was standing beside his car at the end of the drive. That wasn't a surprise, either. Every few days he would check on both women, taking them to the park, or dinner, or movies, or on those special occasions that they wanted to celebrate with their husbands, he took them to the cemetery. It was fitting that he stood here now, waiting to take them to the cemetery today. This trio would travel together to the memorial gardens. The officer would, just as he always did, say a few words before walking away, leaving the women to their private grief. Denise would also say a few words to E before taking the few steps to the side that would let her sit with Dean. Trista would sit with E, lay the flowers on his headstone, and tell him all that had changed in the last year. She would tell him how she still missed him, how she still loved him, and how she wished he was still here. She would tell him how his brothers in blue were still dying. That things hadn't changed that much. Then she would whisper to her husband that she thought Officer Rollins was "sweet" on their friend Denise. He was being respectful and mindful of her mourning, but he was doting on her every word. Then she would confide that neither she nor Denise would ever give their hearts to another. They had both known the great loves of their lives. They were surviving the greatest pain – losing those loves. No one could fill the holes E and Dean had left. There was no need to even try.

I cannot imagine losing my husband. We lost two officers violently in our state and eight in our country... This week was also the anniversary of the loss of two officers in our town from an on-duty shooting. It's a thought that cannot be escaped. To say this was an emotional week is an understatement.

This story was one way of me coping.

Many thanks to Trista's OC owner for letting me borrow her.