Love, Lose, And Repeat

Fallen Soldier Museum

I'd learned to hate doorbells--chimes--knocks at the door. I couldn't look at a policeman or a fireman or god fucking forbid I see an army officer standing in the subway or sitting in a cafe as I passed. Ive seen blue uniforms, lined with pins and medals pull up to identical houses on this military base. But, no one has seen them as much as me. I learned to forget miracles and become an atheist. I learned to use my bible as food for my fires and to read when I wanted to escape. I kept his metals--sure--I couldn't get rid of those. I just kept them in a closed, a dusted, box. My husband--my boys--lost in war. I wait for them to come home while the blood and the dirt and the government cry More. More. More. More soldiers, more dead, more American flags, and then tears to be shed.

It's gone. I live in a museum of fallen soldiers. Forget miracles, I worship vodka. Forget life, I choose to live indoors. Neighbors still come peeking in--holding casserole dishes--offering to host a pray circle, a knitting group, a whatever-would-get-this-crazy-old-woman out of the house.

My only pleasure comes from making faces at children at the grocery store then go home to nightmares of uniforms knocking at my door. Troy--he is on active duty. Troy is my last boy. I keep his room clean and I feed his fish, Fred. But I have given hope up, in everything, and just wait for him to come home dead.

My wrinkles have wrinkles, my gray-hairs have gray-hairs. I look good--I look bad--in the end, no one cares. Hey call me crazy because I still talk to my sons: Brad and Pete. I make meals for my Marvin, his meatloaf to eat. I curse them for going in on the military family tradition. Then, not leaving anyone to follow in it after them. My house has no lighting, I don't like the sun, and on my bad days--I weep for my sons.

There is knocking--I hate knocking. I move from my chair. It could be the mailman or it could be Bigfoot--I dont fucking care. I want my door gone--i want my bell muted. Still I stand, close my eyes, swing open that door. I hear a small laugh and I hear a man's voice. I need to sit,  I need my chair. I start up my weeping,  That's my boy standing there!