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Your kid
brother keeps whining, "It's not fair. I want to go, you get to do
everything."
You continue collecting your gear. From outside the walls you hear gunshots,
mortar blasts as festive as a carnival if you didn't know better. You double-check
your backpack.
You're not scared, it's time for you to go.
You tell your Mom, "Don't cry." She has a knife in her ruined
hands, You know she wants to make you a sandwich - if
she could - if it would help. She almost speaks.
You say, "It's OK."
"It's
not."
Then,"
you say, "It will be OK soon."
"You
don't have to go. It's not too late. Your father didn't go until
he was much older."
You kiss her on the top of the head as you hike up your backpack. You tell
the kid, "You're the man now. Don't blow it."
The kid wags his tail and says, "Can I send him off? Can I? Can
I?"
Your mother
looks away, goes to her room and closes the door.
You strap yourself in, close your eyes and say a prayer, as your brother cuts
the cord. You're catapulted into the air: over your house, over the
wall. You didn't expect the beauty. You think,
this is the last thing your dad saw.
You pull the detonator and make a sound like fireworks - like the fourth of
July as you fall towards them
You hope it helps.
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