The Soldiers Weary

There were men and women who wore uniforms. Colors of their nation, their peoples identity attached to their body and their names stitched on it. The countless fears, clutched prayers, distant stares into the horizon in the search for home. The wails of their families are always audible to them even from across the world. This isn’t about the dead, no words can suffice for the terror and regret a soldier faces when they know that they unwillingly become a memory. Poems have already been dedicated to them in respect and valor. This is rather the weariness, the relief, and the sorrows of those that carry on. Leaving the nightmares, the agonies, the scabs on healed wounds behind and entering a place near and dear to our hearts. Home. The sleepless nights, the stumbling walks, the use of our still beating hearts to keep driving one leg after the other when all our muscles want is a moment of sleep, to keep our eyes open minute after minute on the walk back home. To feel the embrace of loved ones, to smell home cooked meals, to be able to sleep with both eyes closed, finally, peace. No more will we shiver in those cold nights we told ourselves won’t last forever. No more forced laughter to deal with near death experiences. In a newfound isolation, accompanied solely by the environment we left, by the memories of both the joys and the horrors, by experiences we will forever be alone with. One rarely knows what a soldier lives through until they tie on the boots, tuck in their dog tags, and march on through the exhaustion, tears, and longing for home. Yet we’re the ones who made it back. We made it home.