Suburbia
Photo by H. Armstrong Roberts
Remember that time I shot a German soldier through the eye and then I took his diary, photos, and medals as souvenirs but I buried them somewhere in Belgium because I was so racked with guilt, dreaming night after night of his face staring upward to the grey sky, his head cradled by the snow as the blood, a shocking deep red and still warm, melted the flakes and ice and all I saw when I closed my eyes was the vision of my own outline, hints of my own face, reflected in his one remaining dull and lusterless eye.
Remember how burying it changed nothing? Remember the others, dead and dying? Remember the quiet, the sounds of boots in snow? Remember regretting burying those things? Remember the sound of wind and snow falling in spruce trees at dusk?
Remember that?
No?
Neither do I. Let’s live in the suburbs in a house that looks like everyone else’s. Let’s get our own private space, a yard, a dog, hell, I like mowing the lawn.
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