Coming Home

He came home in fatigues a late night in March chill, crisp windless. His heavy shined shoes pairingly stole the chipped, warped creaking boards of the basement stairs. Turning the corner, stepping into the living room shiny black leather steel tipped boots dripped clinging snow onto the worn blue carpet, shoes just recently stained of dust and mud. That same sweet smile proclaimed, "I'm home!" grinning ear to ear expsing frosted red dimples high on each cheek. We got a case that night Molsons. Before he want to war, he always drank Molsons, he drank them slow, steady. Amber fluid this night waved violently into this throat succeding and receding behind brown glass. After those first few gulps I was shocked when he pulled his hat from his brow. Exposing mans eyes, war's eyes previously shadowed by his stately brim. Eyes begging to be seduced by the bubbly beverage. Friends, drink, this momment was the opposite of coarse winds, bright bombs, harsh suns, endless convoys and the stench of rotting urban death. I was witnessing a singular sample of soldier's spirit splitting, and splintering apart. Crumbling like the ancient secrets buried in the dessert. Essence exshaused appearing as exposed steel wire in deteorating concrete. The veins of destructed cities, soldiers, Baghdad, Iraq. Bleeding onto sand pressed streets is blood that can't be washed off the hands. Can't be drained from the mind. Crimson that now darkens this soldiers baby blues.