The toll of war is heart wrenching. You can see it in the eyes of those coming home after their service has ended. I had a friend tell me once he killed enemies and saw friends die when he served in Iraq.
"Sometimes," he said, "I think I died with them."
"That's terrible," I said after a few moments.
He took a long drag on a cigarette and exhaled slowly, nodding, and then rubbing his hands together against the cold of an early winter in Georgia.I remembered when were both younger, just reckless youths, he confessed to me how he heard ghosts moving around in the rented row house his family lived in at the time. I told him the creaks and groans he heard were probably the result of an old house settling at night. He said no. I was wrong. They whispered to him.
His eyes were hollow then.
"I'm pretty sure your buddies would want you to live your life. You know...survive."
He stretched his arms wide against the blistered sky and shivered. A mockingbird flew across the parking lot and over trees and out of sight.
"I wasn't talking about my buddies. I meant the ones I took."
He ground his cigarette out with his boot heel. They were construction boots for his new job, his new life - sturdy and dark with steel toes. He dressed the part.
"Come on. Let's go inside. It's getting cold out here." He clapped me on the back and turned to go. "My nipples are so hard, I think I could dial a rotary phone with them." And then he laughed. Just like old times.
I couldn't see his eyes.
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