Those of us who died are remembered. Honored, mourned for. For some, death is a relief, to finally return to the earth from whence we all came. To leave the brutal bloodbath that is called war. But not me. This is not what I want. I do not scorn my best friends' memorial for me, nor do I scorn their tears. But I don't want to be here. I would trade the sadness, the medal, the memorial, all of it just to be able to fly again. That was my life. To be able to soar through the sky again, to live again. The war was exhilarating, in a word. But not because of the killing, because of the chance to let loose and fly freely. To twist and dive and live through the plane, having it as an extension of the pilot, of me. And of my friend, who fought for me, who lives now for me. He always fought for me, with me. He fought my inevitable death. The last words I heard him say were a desperate plea to save me. I am a father, he said. A father. If I were alive, where would I be? With my child, my son, my daughter. With the love of my life, the woman who brought the sun into my life. I would be, if I were alive. I am dead, lying in the ground, as far away from the sky and its freedom as possible. Bitterness will gain me nothing. But how can I not feel this frustration?
