Train

Four years ago I sat in this very seat watching the scenery fly by. I won’t say four short years, because they were anything but. The landmarks are relatively the same, but the eyes seeing them are different. I left home a happy-go-lucky boy. I hate to admit it, but I’m returning a somber, bitter man.



I recall looking at these hills and fields of waving wheat, thinking how amazing it felt dancing with Betty Jane the night before. My arms had never known such happiness or purpose. Looking out the window now my mind is consumed with thoughts of buddies I lost during my tour. Can you call a guy you've only known for weeks a true buddy? The only name you knew him by was Scooter, and all you can remember of his personal life was that he brushed his teeth before and after he ate. Of course, you can. When you've laid down your life for that man, and he's done the same for you; the term "buddy" is actually inadequate.



Nothing seemed impossible when I departed; now nothing seems possible. I had dreams of becoming a college professor, molding young minds. Instead, I have nightmares that I dare not speak of because I know they’re based on an ugly reality that no one should be exposed to. Four years ago, I was anxious to fight for our country, and I’d do it in a heartbeat again; though, that heart has irreversably changed. I've no regrets: yet, I find myself looking for the person that rode this train out of town.



The night before I left for my tour was filled with sounds of celebration. Music, laughter, and cheering encompassed the air and my soul. What a totally different night it was the final evening in camp. Sounds of gunshots, men in bunks weeping quietly, and a rustling in the trees that made your skin grow cold ate at your mind and spirit.



I didn’t leave with a fear of dying, and I don’t return with one. That’s at least the same. In fact, if you want to know the truth, I’ve prayed for death numerous times. It's disturbing when you fear living more than death. War changes a man, at least it did me. Many days and nights, I could hear my Gramp’s voice in my head. “Boy, every experience you have, becomes a part of who you are. Each decision, action, and word molds the man you’ll become.”



Just a few more turns of this rickety train, and I know I’ll see Mama pacing at the station with a plate full of oatmeal cookies; just like the ones she handed me before I boarded the train. Four years ago . . . The cookies will still be as delicious, but the man who hugs Mama won’t be the same boy who kissed her goodbye. And for that I am truly sorry, for I too miss him.