Somewhere There Is War

I wrote this about a family from the Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI) aka Polytrauma unit who passed by me in the hall.


27 November 2007
Somewhere There Is War

The kids trot dutifully, dragging a teddy bear, try to look strong, behind their mother who is pushing their father in a wheelchair. He was once their father, if they remember him, touching their noses in wonder, letting them wrap their tiny hands around his thick fingers--before he went. Now, in a wheelchair, he smells funny, takes up Mommy's time, makes her cry. He was once her husband, if she remembers, touching her here and there, wrapping his thick arms around her waist--before he went over. Now he wants their attention, somewhere in his brain he knows this. He wants their love, their touch; he wants to tell them he loves them; he wants to tell them that somewhere he knows--he is her husband, their father, a man, a soldier, proud. If he makes this sound, this unearthly sound,

It curdles; in the ward, it condenses all the dread and fear into sandy precipitate that settles into the pits of stomachs. If he makes this sound, they'll pay attention to him; maybe they'll look into his eyes and maybe they'll see that--somewhere in his brain he knows, somewhere in that egg yolk rattled too much in its shell by the blast wave, somewhere in the leaking yellow fluid, he knows who he used to be, who he is, who he wants to be.