(no subject)
I remember you marching through, limp and grubby battle flag retracted from your wrist when necessary, when necessary for marching through. Half-masting, sometimes -- stolen moments of the regret of wars undertaken for reasons beyond our allowable tropes. All men to battle stations, you'd mutter to yourself more than to me, your right hand drifting nervously to your throat.
I remember: days you'd pick through the leaves, wet boots and woolen socks, stories emerging from the mushrooms blooming between your toes, limp and grubby children waiting to be taken home. Unnecessarily, unnecessary, the little weapons that you fashioned out of fabricated recollections, your dedication to your timing apparent in your wrist, nervously stitching together the rhythms, your battle hymn. And how I would hum along.
These days, you come around corners, out from under the bed. Leave your muddy footprints in the hallway. These days, I find the broken laces of your boots when sweeping up the kitchen, find your cigarette butts and razor blades in the potted plants in the living room. For years, I waited for something more, kept my fingers nimble for gathering mushrooms and for pulling pins. Years and then less and less and then only the habits of civilians would not fade. Once conscripted, I'm beyond the call of duty, it seems, outside of the war years. But I continue to ration nevertheless.
I remember: days you'd pick through the leaves, wet boots and woolen socks, stories emerging from the mushrooms blooming between your toes, limp and grubby children waiting to be taken home. Unnecessarily, unnecessary, the little weapons that you fashioned out of fabricated recollections, your dedication to your timing apparent in your wrist, nervously stitching together the rhythms, your battle hymn. And how I would hum along.
These days, you come around corners, out from under the bed. Leave your muddy footprints in the hallway. These days, I find the broken laces of your boots when sweeping up the kitchen, find your cigarette butts and razor blades in the potted plants in the living room. For years, I waited for something more, kept my fingers nimble for gathering mushrooms and for pulling pins. Years and then less and less and then only the habits of civilians would not fade. Once conscripted, I'm beyond the call of duty, it seems, outside of the war years. But I continue to ration nevertheless.