He says it’s not part of him,
he remembers
ripping tongues lashing words to make him fight,
he rolled in dirt to hear his mother tell him to keep going
and when the village scorned him for being there,
he stood tall
trying to find reasons to move on,
and he toured twice in
hell
and in hell he met himself,
when the sun rose above airborne
and parachutes fell,
he could only call himself a fool
and fought not to be a government issued
uniform,
he surrounded himself with photos hanging
over war zones,
and when that wasn’t enough,
he refused to cry,
two tours in Iraq and they didn’t even want him there,
“listen,” he said, “some don’t want to be helped, some want to
be left alone, help yourself first, then you help,”
but when they told him he had to go back, he hung onto
the woman speaking on a video to get him through
long dark nights in deserts aiming to kill
the army colors of his country
and the eagle’s wings fell.
A picture of my father in military training.
Photo Credit
Photo © Melinda Cochrane – All Rights Reserved
Really an exposition that comes with shinning clarity.
Melinda, what beautiful, profound words. Thank you for shining the light of compassion onto war and all its casualties.
Hi Melinda, nice to see you here.