Another sullen-eyed infantryman standing alongside the trail. A kid clutching a rifle.
“Go home!” I call out softly with all the compassion and encouragement I can, “It’s over!”
I stop to fix my ponytail and contemplate him, staring, unmoving in the briars and blackjack.
I want to help them all. Call it a mother’s love. But I just don’t know what to say to them. And this lad’s uniform is so torn and faded I am not even sure what side he’s on let alone what unit might have left him behind.
“Go! Your daddy’s real proud and your ma’s got chicken and pie!” I urge grimacing at my lame attempt at encouragement. I cannot bear to be the one to tell these young soldiers that their cause is lost, that the war was a hundred-something years ago, and that they didn’t make it.
“Go! Your daddy’s real proud and your ma’s got chicken and pie!” I urge grimacing at my lame attempt at encouragement. I cannot bear to be the one to tell these young soldiers that their cause is lost, that the war was a hundred-something years ago, and that they didn’t make it.
Comments
Post a Comment