The weapons station is currently in the process of replacing its decrepit and outdated housing for service members. The old houses are being systematically torn down, and, in their place, impressive two-story homes are being erected. Even the captain is getting a small mansion on the western shore of the Cooper River. The houses, which come in a variety of light pastels, are fairly large, with multiple bedrooms and bathrooms. The houses are still extremely new, and the one I was in today looked like it was never lived in. I felt like an asshole for with every step taken on the beautiful carpeting and untarnished hardwood floors. The kitchen was full of expensive kitchenware that was never used. The couch and love seat that sat in massive living room were not broken in.

While we waited for the CACO to join us, my partners from the Decedent Affairs division and I toured the spaces, checked the closets, and looked for signs of life. There was no dust, no odors, no insects; only stale air. Two of the three bedrooms upstairs were completely empty. In the master bedroom, a full sized mattress sat opposite the large window, the afternoon sun illuminating the single pillow and scrappy blanket that lay upon it.

A week earlier, one of our shipmates ended his life in this new beginning. I didn't ask what room that happened in. This house was never a home, and it certainly wasn't ready to have any ghosts. Instead, I kept myself busy inventorying our friend's few possessions with one partner while the other took notes on the items downstairs. The Casualty Assistance Call Officer arrived shortly after. She came upstairs and helped us dig through the few scattered items cloistered in the bright room, most of which belonged to the deceased's wife. The wife hadn't properly moved in yet, hadn't relocated from her home state to join her husband in Charleston. Even before last week, it was unclear as to whether or not she would even join him.

The other responsibilities of the Decedent Affairs division had already been carried out. Our shipmate was laid to rest upstate this Wednesday, given a proper military burial after a stirring Baptist funeral was held. This was the final responsibility of the division: to liaise with the CACO and inventory and return all of the deceased's personal property to his family. None of the photos we found in piles in his room were of him and his wife, and, aside from the uniforms and regulation effects, there was little left behind to tell us about this man. A karaoke machine, a guitar, and a bible were the last things we inventoried.

We counted his loose change. We made a list of all the untouched wedding gifts. We carefully washed and folded all the clothes he would never wear again. We rewrote paperwork that my partner had soiled with fingers still, after scrupulous inspection, sticky with barbecue sauce. We locked the door behind us as we stepped back out into the beautiful day.

Today was my last day of actual work. I spent the morning writing procedures for the numerous responsibilities to be handed over to a now understaffed department and I inventoried an empty house. The rest of this month is dedicated to preparing for separation. Next month is dedicated to going everywhere and doing absolutely nothing. Nothing sounds really good right now.

I'm due in DC on the 15th, and up until then I have no direction. From there, I'll visit friends in Philadelphia and family in New York. I'm due in San Francisco by mid-May, so this gives me plenty of opportunity to go anywhere. If you want to hang out, let me know. I want to go everywhere.

Also, I should say, I'd like to go to Canada, too, but I need to get my ass a passport.



I'm also looking forward to having plenty to see and plenty to photograph. If anyone feels like goofing around and shooting a set, I'd be up for that too. I need to branch out.