To ignore the dead. To dive into the waters of forgetting.

That is what we do, that is why we have come to the war.



Burying the pain of passing. In the sand. The sand that never parts, that runs back into the foxhole in rivers and waves, even as you fight to unearth the desert's heart with nothing but a rusted-out E-tool. Tamping down the grains, wetted down with spit and sweat and foul canteen water. This is what I do. In my mind I standin the desert, on the floor of the earth, under the moon. The moon is trying to flee, but I don't want it to be day yet. I need tome. I need more time.

I am putting my ruck into the hole, now almost full, the weight of the the gear something to keep the rising tide of memory. I am ashamed, but it is something I must do. If I want the war to end, to fall to pieces around me, clearing a salted path to home, I must bury my friend.

The ruck is hidden under the sand. I no longer know where it is. I throw my helmet to the ground, more ballast. I lay my rifle down. I kick sand on the the weapon. The wind helps me, and it soon disappears. A few moments. Some way to say goodbye, for the last time. An ending.

I return to the fire base, to sleep in the back of the 5 ton.

Morning comes. I go through the motions of the war, now second nature. All this in my head, in my guts, a sadness settling in the warmth of my insides.

The day ends. I watch the moon rise and smoke my last cigarette of the day. And when the desert grows darker, I rise. I return to the desert, with my E tool and more ballast.

It is time to bury again. Maybe this time it will be my last goodbye. But I know it won't be. Until I die, and maybe see my friend again, I will always return, to this silent place. And I will dig, trying to bury. But really I am exhuming.