forgone years

Four gone years. Will my brother look at me in suprise? Will he hug me? Slap me? Tell me I'm a hero, or a fool for running off to war?

Four gone years. What will my mother say...to the little boy who left with his hands full of dreams, scratching a face that only knew peach fuzz? He's now a bearded man. Tired, humbled, tired, smoking, drinking, cursing. Did I menton tired? Oh Mother you were right, that war did kill your little Henry. It killed him in so many ways. Damnit you were right. Can I borrow a bed?

Four gone years. Will my sister recognize me? I heard that she's married now...married with two little rugbugs. Will they hug me? Will they call me uncle? Will they stare at me with stupid innocent eyes? Eyes like those of the kids I had to kill. And what will they say to a stranger wrought with grief over things that he could but could not control? What will they say if i flick off the flag and cry mourning the death of the Henry I was? What would they say if I told them to love who their education tells them to hate...to love everyone because people are stupid, even the smartest of us. Because they still can love.
Four years...Gone...inside of a war...outside of life. I wonder what changed if anything in the years I have foregone.