Juno

My bare right foot drags as pain takes me to the sea.

A hobbling gait furrows the sand, marks my path from shore.

Fucking Juno, what am I doing here?

"C'mon John, Join the tour.  We're goin' back to France."

My shaking hand lights the strong French cigarette.

Haven't smoked in thirty years.  But, I've smoked on this beach before.

Lots of things smoked on this beach.

Ten yards to the water I stop.  Jesus Christ.  Didn't think I'd be weeping.

Somehow I go on.  Have to touch that water.  Just have to get there.

Ice cold waves swallow my feet, numbing the pain.

Sandy water flooding between 84 year old toes as memories, six decades old, flood my 84 year old mind.

Not good memories. I was just a kid. We all were. 

I swear I can hear the rattling guns.  Cutting us down.

I spot a little girl playing in the gentle surf that one time bubbled red with Canadian blood.

I resist the urge to scoop her out of the tide.  Her parents would think I was nuts.

I manage a smile and a wave and she returns it in kind.  The world snaps back to normal.

MacKenzie shouts, "John, we're goin' for a drink".

"Yeah", I bellow back in a ragged voice, wiping my eyes with my sleeve, "sounds good.  Get me off this strip of Hell."

"Let's go have one for those boys in Afganistan."