I sat between two cousins; one a G.I., the other, a Marine.

The G.I. was in Iraq, got caught in a roadside bomb and got sent back, luckily in one piece, all four limbs in place.

The bomb just took off most of his face and he sits there looking through a reconstructed mask. I watched as sweat seeped into his wounds. All the painkillers in the world can't get rid of that tiny sting, so much like memory.

The Marine is as Gung Ho as they come; he was in Afghanistan before any other troops and killed 10 a day to hear him tell it. He finally got sent stateside to be with his wife and kids and ended up killing time, wishing he in the desert killing 10 instead. So they shipped him out and he spent a year in Iraq and is only home now for two weeks before he can hurry back into the fight.

He fed me his bullshit lines he had been fed, his brains washed and dry cleaned, as pressed and starched as his collar.

Sitting between them, I couldn't eat.
Flies lighted on my burger and my apple pie, planting maggots and disease.

Inside I felt sorry for them both.
One destroyed on the outside, one so much deeper.

They headed to the pool for a swim. I told them I was fine and just sat there, thinking.

In the corner of the room three of my uncles sat playing Pitch, it's a card game. Each one a vet themselves; one Korea and the other two Vietnam.

Their conversation stopped and eyes that have seen war before follow others who could still smell it in their noses and on their hands, like gasoline.

The three wise men know blood doesn't make the grass grow.
They've heard their share of that ancient bullshit spread over decades and generations.
They've seen their share of the walking wounded and the moving dead.
They've seen others like these two, scarred on the outside and some down so much deeper.

Old survivors themselves, they move on with life as they always have and know they must . . . They live on like they have before.

But, still young, I hate.
And refusing silence express it.

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