Howling at the Night
There are moments when time stops. You always hear from people that life is over way too fast, but that's not true. Pain makes life pass slowly—that's what happy people just don't get. The times you wish you could forget quickly are always the ones that linger the longest.
When you suffer, it's not self-pity. It's like being stuck in a tar pit, and the longer you struggle, the stickier it gets.
Six and sitting at my kitchen table with a crumpled paper grave in my hand-that was my first lesson in this type of truth. My life stopped, I couldn't move. And even if it looks like I've been to other places, after all this time the truth is that I've still never really left that table. I've always been sitting here, waiting for something to validate my losses, to make my parents martyrs instead of slaughtered pigs, to make this a crusade instead of a war.
"The military regrets to inform you that Mr. and Mrs. Rockbell have passed away as a causality of war..."
I'm sixteen now, you know. A full decade has passed since the military ruined my family. I should be able to look at my kitchen table without wanting to break it.
How do you start to live again? When do you know when it's the right time to begin your recovery?
The truth is that I don't really remember how their voices sounded. I can't forget their faces, because I have a picture of the three of us in my room, and I stare at it every night before I go to bed. But the way they smelled? The way their hands felt when I held them? The way they laughed when they were happy? That knowledge is gone. I can't even dream about it.
Isn't that the real tragedy?
"We at the military express our deepest condolences, and…"
Every time I want to start to move on, to leave this too-slow moment, to lean slowly on recovery, I'm reminded of something I can't just leave behind.
There was never a righteous reason for them to die. I can't remember what I loved about them. The war has never stopped. Nothing has ever been won. People will surely still die in their place. How did my mom's perfume smell? The gravestones on the hill are marked and empty.
And every time I take a new tragedy, time stops. For awhile, life is too slow, and I am too weak to prevent myself from being knocked down. When is it proper to bandage the wounds? When will it ever be rightfor me to forget all they have sacrificed?
When will I be strong enough to accept everyone thinks they die for a good cause?
"They died for our country. Their sacrifice will not be forgotten."
The truth is that I will never stop wanting to break that fucking table.
"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori," right?
Bullshit.