I'll Never Forget Your Service
I look rough; my panda eyes bloodshot and weary, on my fifth night shift as we swim against the inevitable current in the Emergency Department.
He looks worse; forlornly dipped head, wrists slashed open, dirty aside from the wheelchair’s sheen, strapping in his wasted, camouflaged khaki-adorned legs which haven’t worked since his last attempt. He cries, lamenting the wife who left, the country who forgot, the tours that haunt his dreams nightly. I console him, tending to his deep wounds as best I can. He asks me where I’m from. I answer quietly: Iraq, as his sobs grow ever louder.