I've always been patriotic, and when I lived in Dover with him the first thing I planted outside when I moved there was a little American flag. In April when it started warming up outside, I started thinking about getting a little flag to display outside again. Partly because I just think it's a good thing to do and partly because to me it's a small way of showing my support for our troops. I contemplated asking him to mail me the flag that we flew outside our home in Dover. So that I could fly "our" flag in his honor. But then I decided not to because when he gets back from his deployment, I want him to fly that flag outside his home again. I want that flag to stay in Delaware waiting for him to return. So I bought a new one and every time I look at it I think of how grateful I am to the people who fight for our safety and our freedom.
There is not a day that goes by that I don't think about him and pray for him.
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My rendition of a soldier. It needs refining though.
My foot planted down, firmly it holds. The soft desert sand sifting within the grooves within my boots. The faint screams of terror, bellowing throughout the ruble that lie ahead. My associates of war rushing forward, calamity we were running from. The weapon of choice, sitting under the pit of my arms, still expelling heat, a direct result of what just happened. Slowly time begins to rewind, slowly everyone is running backwards. Bullets returning to their chambers, the fireball returns to its metal casing and slowly retracts to the sky. We are now in a building, a house, someone's home. I stare at my enemy, his eyes gleaming from tears, fear I saw in him. He held his wife, and his son tightly, clenching them with all his might. He's yelling, no, more as of begging in a foreign tongue. I didn't understand him, nor did I care. My commander whispers in my ear, take care of it, in a voice so subtle, I wasn't sure if it was proclaiming death, but I knew. I Held the barrel of the M16 up, yelling orders for the wife and kid to separate, or they shall follow the fate of him. He cried hysterically, fluently understanding my gestures, ones that meant business. My fellow men left, advancing on. I was left with orders, ones I had to fulfill. I gave another cry of my demands and slowly placed my finger on the trigger, my aim becoming more acute. The father pushes his wife and son away, pointing frantically at the door. They didn't budge, as if they were forever indebted. There was a sparkle shimmering from them. I concentrated upon it. I looked deeper and I saw....
My mother telling me everything will be alright. We were living in a trailer, my abusive father finally moved out after years of debating the idea. My mother, her mascara trailing down the side of her cheek, yet a smile she managed to keep. I was scared, our belongings scattered across the living room floor and into the kitchen. She gave another conformation, everything will be alright. We sat there on the bathroom floor, time passing without it's fame. The night quickly came, and I awoke. My mother was still sleeping in the position she was for hours. I crept out and opened the front door and sat on the small stoop. I heard the barking of dogs, yelling of neighbors as if it would help. I looked up at the sky, the moon shimmering brightly providing the dark night rays of light, the stars is of beautiful assistance. I placed my hands together, and prayed. I was only eight. I wasn't sure if anyone was listening, or if I was heard, I just wanted to believe. That I still don't.
Seventeen and life still hasn't given me the better odds. I'm nearing graduation after many attempts to dropout. We needed the money. I was hungry. Two demanding jobs left my visage to a boney skeleton. My clothes, tattered, but still able to perform it's functions. My mother, unemployed, picked up a drinking habit since my childhood. I was left to foot all of the bills. I didn't want to leave her, something inside of me told me I shouldn't. Something inside of me told me I was happy. I didn't know what that something was. So like a soldier, I trooped on.
Nineteen now, and my diploma hasn't done a thing for me. I'm still working the same two jobs and even picked up another one. Times were getting harder and harder, we are even at war. The news blaring, putting one man and his country at fault. The oil, our gas prices went up, forcing me to commute to work by foot. I asked belligerently, kill me now, and a answer came. I enlisted into the army; I was going to become a foot soldier. My mother said she was proud. She had since, cleaned up her act after I graduated. She saw an accomplishment, one she hasn't seen since the day my father left. She became the woman I pictured, a mother of me. We struggled to keep our home, an upgrade from the trailer, but it was a challenge. I had better clothes, ones with less holes in them. I had a car, rusty but still ran like a champ. It was my baby though, it was my life. It filled the void in my life, the one my father once held. The one he left, and never returned to.
Located in the deserts of California, my training was exhausting. I wasn't use to these conditions. At nights I would continually dream for some New England snow to flurry upon my bed, but the temperature read 105. My platoon was small yet fierce. Men with pride that couldn't be held by the tents that sheltered us. They would sing and rant, American tunes, the words that seem patriotic. Cleaning their barrels, readying for the day in which to serve their country. They just really wanted to kill people. I never knew, or care to know why we were here, at war. I just wanted to be deemed a hero. I wanted to make my mother proud. Underneath, I wanted to die.
I squeezed the trigger, releasing a few short bursts of bullets and left, down the stairs and out the door to regroup. I gave conformation of the completion of my objective and we continued on. Running from building to building and to a sudden stop. We had to cross the open sands. We had to follow through with our mission. We had to rescue our men. My foot planted down, firmly it holds. My associates of war rushing forward, calamity we were running from. Men dropping like flies around me. The air raid, bombing the site ahead, clearing our path. I headed towards death, I seen his face smirking at me. I pulled out my arms ready to release the strays of metal, but before I could squeeze, I was down. I was hit. Gathering my breaths, my entire life flashed like pictures from an old movie reel. My mother, my car, my struggle, my pain, my happiness, my glory, my life. The last image I saw was that family. They reminded me of what my mother and I shared. I let them live, I saw no reason why I should have taken their lives. In them
......I saw love.
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