11/25/2024
The after
Of disaster
Is bliss.
It’s either one
Or the other.
Touching
Or nothing.
This time, she lied smoking beside me.
She asked me of my life.
Where I grew up,
And my family.
I shared it all with my dignity hanging out,
Something about my mind being numb,
And nudity.
Brought it all out of me.
“Where did you get that hat?”
“A village east of Herat.”
“Where?”
“Northern Afghanistan.”
“Oh rad. Did you kill the guy?”
“No, not him. The hat was a gift from an Afghan soldier who stole it from a Bazaar. He and his friends looted it.”
That sentence stuck and it even made me think. Why had I
kept that hat. It was cool, but those guys were kind of
criminals hiding behind the might of the American War
Machine. But the way that Soldier smiled when he gave it to me. With dirty teeth and kind eyes. It reminded me almost of a child. Like a younger brother bringing you a bully’s lunch money. Which maybe it was like that. Yet I didn’t share that thought with her.
“You don’t talk about it all that much?”
“Don’t really need to, it’s not who I am. It was just a job.”
“What about your family?”
“What about them?”
“Are you close?”
“No, not really, but I call my dad once every couple weeks to chat and check-up. He lives up in the mountains and loves the s**t out of me.”
•
📖: Demons in the Taillights, by William Bolyard
