Chapter+35



In it all, I was the one that jumped first. I was the one that ran fastest, and I was the one that was unstoppable. I wasn’t the losing team, ever. In it all, I withstood criticism but rather than by choice, it was by example. The games I played, seemingly unimportant at the time, were that of imitation. We’d imitate the soldiers we saw on tv, being “all that they could be”. I was in fact the only triumphant person amongst the giggling bodies, surrounded by grass and sand boxes. In it all, I survived.

The irony was amazing. Now I sit in my living room that I haven’t stayed in a little over three years. The pink wallpaper, faded, made it surreal. The couch that creaked on its left side. The uneven table because of the football that hit its leg, permanently memorable.

I’d ask how the sky stayed so white, during the Christmases that I visited in. This time, it was limitless and perfect. Smokeless, pure, it was a child’s innocence spread wide on the sky of pollution. In it all, I understood. I was home, and innocence wasn’t spread, it was a constant layer that was unnoticed and unappreciated. I took it in, every single silent moment broken by something spectacular. My kitchen, it harassed silence.

I couldn’t tell you how many days I wanted that sound of the oven ticking away to come and that sweet, rich scent of cornbread to be surrounding me. I watched the days go by right beside my feet, under them, like steps I’ll never see again, so far from home.

The first day started like this.

Form. Posture. Uniform. Shells. Form. Posture. Eyes. Caution.

We stood there in our uniforms, knees shaking even less the third time around. I’d been here twice before, both times on our way to the foreign, misunderstood area; Iraq.

Dozing off was effortless at the time. No bombshells hitting your back as you take a stroll amongst the strangers. No gunshots sprinkled into your dinner. This was the first day I lost the cornbread scent.

“All set sir.”

The third year on this tour began. No turbulence, be thankful for small blessings.

The second day went like this, along with the blur of the weeks after that.

Still. Move. Rush. Shot. Still. Move. Defense. Still.

They walked by us, faceless. They became customary. Sure, they walked differently. They had different scents, different dirts. Even so, they were of the same essence. In it all, expecting was nothing new.

At night I would pray, “Dear God, thank you for another day of life. Make these people understand. Amen.” I was mocking the circumstances

And I dreamt of cornbread. The cornbread represented home, acceptance, and above all warmth. It never left me waiting, no orders either. It was consistent, it was marvelous.

Day 48 came. Gravel scent, dirt too, it was only reconstructed upon a different day. It wasn’t refreshing ever, yet it was somewhat reassuring in ways you’ll understand only when waking up is a blessing fully appreciated.

My men, in it all.

My men walked beside me. I loved them, I decided. They wanted me to be beside them and declared full and complete faithfulness, wanting nothing in return but the mirroring offer you undeniably accepted.

There he fell. There he died. In it all, he was my hero.

His body collapsed and the shots broke free. I went to my right, my orders to locate the shooter. The AK-47 bullet lodged in my right shoulder was excruciating. From there I was like my hero, fallen, and my life was punctured.

Two days later, I woke up in a hospital. Dust, dirt, gravel. It wasn’t there. It felt numb.

I got home, and the snow white sky accented the chalky foam on my lawn. Now, here I sit. Taking in the cornbread scent and while I can I’ll enjoy the timelessness. The fearlessness. I’ll return to duty, after I drown this homesickness. Here I sit, taking in the ticking of my kitchen, I’ll wait for day 1 again.


 * By Aly Nunez**

Source Used:

Pollock, Chris. "Shot in Iraq, soldier expects to return." __The Morning Call__ June 25, 2007 http://72.14.253.104/search?q=cache:hBcZHg9E0RUJ:www.mcall.com/news/local/all-b1-4soldier-a.5914379jun25,0,1032482.story+morningcall+shot+in+Iraq&hl=en&ct=clnk&cd=1&gl=us