The desert
Rest in peace
So many went.
Not as many returned,
but,
of those who did,
even fewer made it back.
Sitting among friends,
although friendless
At the table amongst family,
yet wondering where his brothers are.
Are they confused as he is?
Are they frightened of themselves?
Do their dreams ever end at the point of a knife?
So many went.
Not as many returned,
but,
of those who did,
even fewer made it back.
American writer
Sitting with him, surrounded by friends, only smiles and half-remembered stories. If you watched him, you knew his smile wasn’t genuine. If you listened, you heard the strain in his voice. If you breathed deeply enough, you saw how he breathed even more rapidly, as if caught under a blanket of fear that you could steal the air from his lungs.
I spent three years in intimate contact with him. Training day in, day out. Meals together, jawing about sense and nonsense, hurt and happy, but on that night, in the safety of our circle of friends, it was clear that he did not feel safe. Too awkward to bring the issue up with him, I just asked him if he wanted to go for a walk and he nodded.
We walked for almost five hours and no words were exchanged. His heart rate decelerated, his breathing calmed down, and he stopped sweating. By the time we got back to the bar, everyone was gone and not a soul had asked where he’d gone. He had simply disappeared.
I won’t ever understand what happened over there, but he never came back to us. I still think about and hope for him to this day.
