I re-read the letter I had just received in the mail.

Sorry my writing is bad. I lost a fingernail working on a dozier. My hand is a little sore.

Thanks for the notebook. I got it today. I read cover to cover in 4 days. I couldn't put it down! I'm glad so many seem behind us. As Soldiers, we do as we are told, but I do believe in why we are here. You would have to see how these people live. There seems to be no personal or patriotic pride. We moved yesterday and on the convoy, we passed people living in a trash dump.

We were living outside of Kaniki and now we are across the river from Tikrit. The U.S. had turned Saddam's biggest palace into a base . Every night it gets mortared and the gates are attacked. They just shot down a helo and killed Soldiers going on R&R. My battle group has been moved in to draw fire and flush out the gorrillas. Last night was our turn. Our battle group dropped 155mm Howitzer rounds on them from 2230-0200. The guns firing was like a thunderstorm (I slept like a baby!)

I found myself battling emotions. I was relieved Tariq was okay, but angry that he waited a month before mailing the letter. I knew of the loss of the Soldiers on their way for R&R, and hoped that Tariq had just missed out. I was sad for the families, but relieved it wasn't my loved one on the Chinook that was shot down.

"Ciara, you okay?" My dad's voice startled me.

"I'm fine, Popola. I was just reading a letter from Tariq." I wiped some tears from my eyes.

"He okay?" Poppa's voice was concerned.

"Yeah. He wasn't on that transport, thank God." I faced my poppa. "Still, they are using his battle group to flush out the guerillas. That can't be good, can it?"

"He'll be fine." Poppa consoled. "He's got some good men looking after him, right?"

"Yeah. He speaks highly of them, especially his Staff Sergeant." I sat on the couch.

Poppa sat next to me. "When's he due home?"

I shrugged. "Don't know. There's rumors of April, but that can change in the blink of an eye." Even April seemed so far away on that December morning. Tariq and I had been friends for as long as we could remember. Despite the religious differences, our families were close. Tariq was raised in a Muslim house and I was raised in a Baptist house. Yet, our families were forever doing things together.

I developed a crush on Tariq when we were freshmen in High School. Until then, he was always my best friend, but when we entered High School, something changed in me. He was not just my best friend; he was my "Dawson". In fact, he always called me "Joey". He never admitted to anyone that he was a closet DAWSON'S CREEK fan. Of course, unlike "Dawson" and "Joey", we never even got to the plate. Too many girls were vying for Tariq's affection and I, being his best friend would listen in agony as he would tell me what this girl did or that girl did. I hated that he never saw me as more than a friend.

I sighed and went to my room and looked at his basic training picture. How proud our families were that he made the patriotic decision to join the Army. He decided to join after the towers fell, but didn't leave until after his parents were okay. I remembered how angry he got when he heard they'd been beat up because they were Muslim. I hated seeing Tariq upset and his letters spoke often of how he was upset over this or that because of this new lieutenant they had.

"Ciara?" My mom slowly opened the door.

"Yes, Momma?" I placed Tariq's picture down.

"Phone call."

"Thanks, Momma. Who is it?" But Momma closed the door before she replied.