The dream. Part II

The dream came back. My dream. The one that scares me because jack is crying… holding on to Lisanne because maybe that’s all he has. Because I wasn’t there. A picture in Newsweek: Young boy in the front row. wearing his father’s flight jacket, holding his mother’s and sister’s hands. As the casket rolls by.

Dad once told me that he was sorry that he didn’t spend more time with us kids, teaching us to throw and play baseball. To throw grenades. Maybe someday after this is all over… after we’re done throwing grenades? A year is such a long time to be dead.

Helpless. It’s my job to fix things, but I can’t fix this. Like those guys they caught at the checkpoint and mutilated. Like a child, having a nightmare. Running, but not escaping. like those guys. Like the ones left behind. A roar in my ears, in my brain, drowning out the silence, the forever stillness of the night. Fear envelops me and I want to run away. To be safe. Like you want to run when the cancer comes…

I hate this dream. It’s about death, leaving people. I just pray it’s about my death, and not theirs. I feel so helpless. I don’t want to die. Why do you want me to leave? BAM BAM! BAAM!! I awake to the sound of the mortars impacting.