War
Spring 2017 Booth residence Rockville, MD
"…..and in other news, the American President, German Chancellor, and British Prime Minister have agreed to their joint task force executing more drone strikes over the Syrian desert against the rogue forces in retaliation for their kidnapping of aid workers last week and Corporal Jenkins' squad last month…."
"How much longer is that conflict going to last…? It's been dragging on since 1991…how many more young soldiers will we lose…?" Booth wondered sadly.
"Dad?"
Sighing, Booth grabbed his remote and muted the television as he spied Zach toddling into his man-cave. With his tongue clenched between tiny white teeth and brown eyes squinched in concentration, the little boy determinedly lurched toward his father, a Nerf football grasped tightly in both small fists.
"Ball, dad?" he queried hopefully, as he reached the raised leg rest of Booth's recliner and fell against it.
Roused from his depressing thoughts, Booth smiled. "Sure, sport," he replied quietly. He closed his chair and arose, leaning over to pick up Zach and the football.
He strode up the stairs into the kitchen toward the back door with Zach hugging his neck, walked out onto the back porch and down the back steps into their broad back yard. Carefully setting Zach on his feet and taking the lime green football, he waited for his son to get his balance, walked six feet away, and turned toward the eager child. He gently lobbed the soft football toward his son, and smiled as Zach caught it.
" 'Gain, dad!" Zach crowed. Booth obliged, retrieving the clumsily-tossed ball, and launching it into a slow spiral that came straight to the boy so it was easy for him to capture in both hands.
They threw the ball back and forth a few more times, before Brennan appeared at the door. "Lemonade, Zach?" she called. "Yeah, Mama!" Their son ran to Bones, the ball forgotten in the grass.
Booth leaned down to retrieve it, stood up and gazed out over his lawn. He walked over to a red tricycle, picked it up, and carried it into the garage. He stepped on a small flat rock in the grass, and the arch of his foot ached as it often did by day's end.
Recalling the newscast he'd been watching, he stared into the quickly disappearing sunset. "I hope by the time Zach grows up, the Middle East has settled down, and drone strikes are a thing of the past. I hope they can agree on some sort of peace or détente. I pray my boy and the kids his age never need to go to war and none of them ever face any chance of capture or interrogation or torture or going through what I did in that Iraqi prison…."