Coming Home
He Came Back.
The rounds of fire go off as I stand there. Motionless. Time has slowed down and the faces are becoming a swirl of black. Sobs, screams, and faint whispering are the backbeat for the gunshots in the air. I can't count.
I don't think I can stand anymore. I glance over at the coffin, the American Flag levitating above it as Final Words were spoken on his behalf.
Amazing Husband
Loving Father
Died Fighting For His Country
Suddenly, rain drops are falling from above and all I can do is stare. They are talking, tears falling from those cheeks and making their way onto their pressed uniform. They were his friends, 'co-workers'.
He could have done something else. A lawyer. A doctor. But no, he had one better, he was going to be a Marine.
And now, he's dead. I won't hear his laugh when I jump into his arms. Nor will I hear the soft whispers coming from his and mom's room when he breaks the news that he's going back.
I wrote him a card when I was five and he was at a training camp. I told him we could move to Canada. He wrote a letter back asking me why. And I told him so we could live together, and because Canadians have funny accents.
He never wrote back, but I knew he must have laughed.
Back then, it wasn't as much of a big deal as it was now. But then again, he wasn't running from bullets. From exploding cars. From raging protesters.
All for his country.
I can't cry for him. I refuse. Because I told him, I told him what would happen. And he promised that he would come back.
Well, that plan certainly backfired.
There are no more times where I can stand in a crowd, waiting to see his face appear. It won't happen ever again. I stood there, watching as the flag was finally draped over the casket. I clutched my rose, too scared to move.
In one fluid motion, all of his friends walked up to the casket. They placed a different colored rose on the casket, depending on their relationship with him. The horns were playing some song. One that they have played one too many times.
Time is stopping again. My little brother trudges over to the brightly colored flag and drops a rose on top, with my mother's help. His pudgy hands reach out to touch the fabric but my mother pulls him away. They say he's too young to understand, I think he knows.
My mother glances over at me and suddenly, my hearing is gone as well. I forcefully walk over to the coffin. I stand, staring at it. My face; unreadable. Eyes are burning holes through my skull. I know it's over.
Suddenly, the flower is out of my grip. I'm huddled over the mess of flowers, flag, and oak wood. I'm sobbing. Hands are reaching for my back, trying to comfort me. I shrug them off, stepping back to kick the coffin and immediately it turned into a mess of limbs, trying to hold me back. I'm fighting.
You lied.
You came back.
But you did not come home.
I don't think I can stand anymore. I glance over at the coffin, the American Flag levitating above it as Final Words were spoken on his behalf.
Amazing Husband
Loving Father
Died Fighting For His Country
Suddenly, rain drops are falling from above and all I can do is stare. They are talking, tears falling from those cheeks and making their way onto their pressed uniform. They were his friends, 'co-workers'.
He could have done something else. A lawyer. A doctor. But no, he had one better, he was going to be a Marine.
And now, he's dead. I won't hear his laugh when I jump into his arms. Nor will I hear the soft whispers coming from his and mom's room when he breaks the news that he's going back.
I wrote him a card when I was five and he was at a training camp. I told him we could move to Canada. He wrote a letter back asking me why. And I told him so we could live together, and because Canadians have funny accents.
He never wrote back, but I knew he must have laughed.
Back then, it wasn't as much of a big deal as it was now. But then again, he wasn't running from bullets. From exploding cars. From raging protesters.
All for his country.
I can't cry for him. I refuse. Because I told him, I told him what would happen. And he promised that he would come back.
Well, that plan certainly backfired.
There are no more times where I can stand in a crowd, waiting to see his face appear. It won't happen ever again. I stood there, watching as the flag was finally draped over the casket. I clutched my rose, too scared to move.
In one fluid motion, all of his friends walked up to the casket. They placed a different colored rose on the casket, depending on their relationship with him. The horns were playing some song. One that they have played one too many times.
Time is stopping again. My little brother trudges over to the brightly colored flag and drops a rose on top, with my mother's help. His pudgy hands reach out to touch the fabric but my mother pulls him away. They say he's too young to understand, I think he knows.
My mother glances over at me and suddenly, my hearing is gone as well. I forcefully walk over to the coffin. I stand, staring at it. My face; unreadable. Eyes are burning holes through my skull. I know it's over.
Suddenly, the flower is out of my grip. I'm huddled over the mess of flowers, flag, and oak wood. I'm sobbing. Hands are reaching for my back, trying to comfort me. I shrug them off, stepping back to kick the coffin and immediately it turned into a mess of limbs, trying to hold me back. I'm fighting.
You lied.
You came back.
But you did not come home.