I can remember the sinking anchor in the pit of my stomach, as I turned and walked away from her.
From my beautiful, pregnant wife; my vision blurred with hot, stinging tears.
I remember writing her every day, smiling as I caressed her picture every night, thinking of our unborn child.
The explosion came so fast, so unexpected, burning red, the unforgettable groans, the screams, and the stench of burning flesh all around.
All my courageous men slowly, painfully dying all around me, begging, shouting, crying for mercy, curling inside myself and saying “God, what do I do?”
Then I noticed I was hit too, the ice cold feeling of fear, of death, the last thing I remembered was the gray ash-stained twilight sky, the moon peeking out, accompanied by bright shining balls of hot gas.
I remembered my wife’s fair face, rosy cheeks, warm smile, and all the beautiful intimate moments I have shared with her in color, that were now fading to black and white, soon to be swallowed by darkness.
I thought of my unborn son, and wished to God that he grows up a brave, loving man.
The last thing I whispered was “God, make me a bird so I can fly home.”