I held Nick close, trying to comfort him. We were both terrified of the past and dreading the future. The best we can do is pick up our gear and trudge onward, desperately hoping to make it back to base alive. As I tell Nick to not worry, that everything is going to be all right, I think of his wife back home and their baby on the way. I’ve seen pictures of her and can’t imagine how Nick can stand to be away from her. I can’t tolerate to be in this wretched mess, I comfort Nick as best as I know how: we will survive this hell. The best way to make it through is to constantly reassure yourself; think of the reason you’re there, and the reason you are going to make it out alive. The one thing that gets me through every day is my girl back home. I have a picture of her in my back pocket. Late at night, right before I drift into an uncertain sleep, I often study the torn and wrinkled photo. It’s wonderful summer day and she is wearing a sweet little white dress with a red ribbon wrapped around her untamed auburn curls. She has a slice of half-eaten watermelon in her hand, and the juice is dribbling down her hand and arm, but it doesn’t seem to bother her one bit. She looks up at the camera with delight and excitement in her eyes; her bright smile seems to melt away all my fears. As Nick regains his composure, I close my eyes in attempt to recall her laugh and automatically think of her letters to me. I don’t have enough pockets to carry all of them with me so I only have the most recent one at the moment; this is sitting in my back pocket also. I pull it out of my pocket, my only escape: this little piece of paper. I reread the short letter quickly; eager to get to the beautiful farewell that tears my eyes every time. And then, at the bottom, there it is, like it is on every letter: “I love you, please come home soon.” I fight back tears, trying to be a strong soldier, but this is one thing no soldier can protect himself from. I’ll never stop being amazed at how my four-year-old girl knows exactly what to say. And this is the reason I’m going to make it out alive.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Sobbing Soldier Narrative #2
Sobbing Soldier Narrative #2
I held Nick close, trying to comfort him. We were both terrified of the past and dreading the future. The best we can do is pick up our gear and trudge onward, desperately hoping to make it back to base alive. As I tell Nick to not worry, that everything is going to be all right, I think of his wife back home and their baby on the way. I’ve seen pictures of her and can’t imagine how Nick can stand to be away from her. I can’t tolerate to be in this wretched mess, I comfort Nick as best as I know how: we will survive this hell. The best way to make it through is to constantly reassure yourself; think of the reason you’re there, and the reason you are going to make it out alive. The one thing that gets me through every day is my girl back home. I have a picture of her in my back pocket. Late at night, right before I drift into an uncertain sleep, I often study the torn and wrinkled photo. It’s wonderful summer day and she is wearing a sweet little white dress with a red ribbon wrapped around her untamed auburn curls. She has a slice of half-eaten watermelon in her hand, and the juice is dribbling down her hand and arm, but it doesn’t seem to bother her one bit. She looks up at the camera with delight and excitement in her eyes; her bright smile seems to melt away all my fears. As Nick regains his composure, I close my eyes in attempt to recall her laugh and automatically think of her letters to me. I don’t have enough pockets to carry all of them with me so I only have the most recent one at the moment; this is sitting in my back pocket also. I pull it out of my pocket, my only escape: this little piece of paper. I reread the short letter quickly; eager to get to the beautiful farewell that tears my eyes every time. And then, at the bottom, there it is, like it is on every letter: “I love you, please come home soon.” I fight back tears, trying to be a strong soldier, but this is one thing no soldier can protect himself from. I’ll never stop being amazed at how my four-year-old girl knows exactly what to say. And this is the reason I’m going to make it out alive.
I held Nick close, trying to comfort him. We were both terrified of the past and dreading the future. The best we can do is pick up our gear and trudge onward, desperately hoping to make it back to base alive. As I tell Nick to not worry, that everything is going to be all right, I think of his wife back home and their baby on the way. I’ve seen pictures of her and can’t imagine how Nick can stand to be away from her. I can’t tolerate to be in this wretched mess, I comfort Nick as best as I know how: we will survive this hell. The best way to make it through is to constantly reassure yourself; think of the reason you’re there, and the reason you are going to make it out alive. The one thing that gets me through every day is my girl back home. I have a picture of her in my back pocket. Late at night, right before I drift into an uncertain sleep, I often study the torn and wrinkled photo. It’s wonderful summer day and she is wearing a sweet little white dress with a red ribbon wrapped around her untamed auburn curls. She has a slice of half-eaten watermelon in her hand, and the juice is dribbling down her hand and arm, but it doesn’t seem to bother her one bit. She looks up at the camera with delight and excitement in her eyes; her bright smile seems to melt away all my fears. As Nick regains his composure, I close my eyes in attempt to recall her laugh and automatically think of her letters to me. I don’t have enough pockets to carry all of them with me so I only have the most recent one at the moment; this is sitting in my back pocket also. I pull it out of my pocket, my only escape: this little piece of paper. I reread the short letter quickly; eager to get to the beautiful farewell that tears my eyes every time. And then, at the bottom, there it is, like it is on every letter: “I love you, please come home soon.” I fight back tears, trying to be a strong soldier, but this is one thing no soldier can protect himself from. I’ll never stop being amazed at how my four-year-old girl knows exactly what to say. And this is the reason I’m going to make it out alive.
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