You have survived
the war.
Now live
with the trauma.
― Lori Jenessa Nelson
My Sanctuary
Orwell has his Golden Country and I have mine. It's a place I went to in my mind, crouching behind boulders on those rocky outcrops in Afghanistan.
I never once saw a field, not even poppies, but knew a place of comfort and that was something... and the same thing in Willow Grove draws me―I can't explain it, but it defines me.
There's no logic, just a feeling and right now, it's enough for me.
My dad always dreamt of living off the land, but never did it.
He was one of the Gentle People―hated war and everything that went with it.
I see photos of him in long hair and jeans and mom in a long halter dress...
But I went to war for a cause, though he warned me, he let me do it. He never possessed the land and I never found what I was seeking either.
So, now here I am, living his dream and trying to forget a nightmare.
Easier said than done.
"So, you're camping out tonight?" Ella asks, eyeing my cart laden with tent, sleeping bag and provisions.
I give her my crooked smile, some women say is charming. "Yeah, I thought I ought to get to know the land―A good way to get to know someone is to sleep with them."
She arches an eyebrow. "They say all metaphors limp―if that's a line it's a pretty lame one."
"Well, you're welcome to drop by and spend a few hours around the campfire."
""Here ya go, Lothario," she laughs, handing back my credit card. "They say it's gonna rain tonight―if it holds off a bit I'll come out―just don't count on it."
I nod and push my cart out to my pick-up. I like night rain―that's not likely to put me off spending the night in a tent.
Not like the Afghan rain, cold and bleak and mean.
I see dark forms in the hills and tracer fire arcing upwards. I grab my AR-15 and return the fire countering the Ak-47's of the mujahideen.
It's anonymous and distant like dogs barking at one another. Bright shards of memory pierce like bullets―like the old enfield rounds that still can pierce our body armour.
But I'm not on the atoll, but in the parking lot in bright sunlight―the cart is stalled and my knuckles white from gripping the handle.
Gripping, groping, grabbing...what does it matter? Part of me is here and the rest elsewhere pushing back the darkness.
Futile as that might be, futile as pushing this rock upwards and being crushed under its weight when it inevitably rolls backwards.
Maybe I should go back inside and tell Ella not to come. I’m such a ruin of what I once was.
Randall burnt his farmhouse to the ground and all that’s left are the stones.
That’s why I like the land—it can’t be devastated any more. You can have a ruined building but not ruined stones.
And in the end maybe that’s me—simply burnt-over ground.