Tea Time

Cherry Pie A La Mode

     Rat-a-tat tat. Rat-a-tat tat. Do you hear that? The drums of war are coming. The United States has entered yet another World War, and the president is to blame. We're arming up our military and young boys are rushing to become men. Girls are becoming women at home and in the battle field. A new dictator somewhere in the East insulted our dear president and we fired back with an atomic bomb. Almost instantly, war was declared on the United States and we cockily answered back "Take us on!" What fools are we. This war was different because this war was deadlier. Nobody was truly safe as the opposite sides took out neighborhoods, elementary schools and hospitals.

    What fools we are. I am suiting up to become a man, or so my commander says. It seems that it was only yesterday we had the privilege of electronics, warm showers and innocence. With our heads shaved to perfection and our shoes shined until you see the reflection, we are off to battle-train. We are the biggest base in the U.S. Millions of innocent lives are posted here; it's only a matter of time before-- Ka-Boom! Take cover! Take cover! The base is under attack! Chaos explodes all around. Men are screaming like women and the women are screaming like men. Nurses are jolted into action as hundreds are already dead or dying. I see the grinning suicide bombers as they fly into our station only to end their 'noble' life. I see my old simple farm life flash before my eyes as a bunk-mate is blown to pieces in front of me. Gore is a norm among the home that has become the battlefield. I only wait until I die, am taken prisoner or the war comes to an end.

    Pew, pew. It's only a game like when we were kids, you see. The men will get up soon after they count to 15 and come alive again but there's no time to confirm if they do. Remember your training! Bear crawls, stay low to the ground and don't hesitate to pull the trigger. My mind always blanks when I see my next bunk-mate fall to the ground. Flashes of him and his kind words of the woman with child he has back at his home base erupt like the red spreading on his chest. You can only take his dog tag and move on before someone has flashes of you. War is a dangerous game to play; nobody wins. Left, left. Left, right, left. It is ingrained into our brains even though panic is all around. You can no longer tell if the red soaking into your ragged uniform is yours, your enemy's or your friend's.

    It has been several years since my last home cooked meal. My mother always slaved away into dinner meals and there would be no leftovers after my family tore into it. My favorite? Black forest ham and cornbread served with steaming green beans and mashed potatoes. The meal was just the start as mother made home made desserts that gave us muffin-tops. Her famous cherry pie was blue ribbon at the state fair. The crust buttery and flakey while the inside stored the red goo filtered with whole cherries. It was something to die for. At least until the war started and now it literally is to die for. With so many items being rationed, mother's pies will never be for a long while.

    It is so sad that a couple of years ago, I had no worries at all but now my mind is consumed of worries. I was a basic American boy with baseball as a chosen sport, fish to catch on the weekends and girls to pester on the week-days. Violence had seemed to be a huge problem and parents were concerned their children were far too naive to understand it. It's comical because all of those gamers everybody laughed at are now top notch commanders, generals or senior officers. My humor was twisted quite some time ago when my best friend fell to the bullet in the beginning of the war. His mother cried and his father hung his head while his baby girl would never know his face. Oh, the stories we will tell once the gun rain comes to a still.

    The war will come to an end but at what cost? My gun almost seems to have its own intellect as men fall at my feet left and right. Screams are now my songs as the battle has raged on at our base for 2 weeks now. My dog tag clanks against my chest; the only record I will have as someone's bullet has hit its mark in my heart. I do not perish yet as the red slowly oozes out onto my cotton white shirt. Who will tell my mother? Who will teach my younger brother that war is not a game? As my mind slows and everything becomes fuzzy, I hold onto an image. My mother's blue ribbon cherry pie smothered with vanilla ice cream.