e bright stars reflected against the soldiers tired, sunken eyes. Their large combat boots crunched in the sandy grains of the Afghanistan desert. Their steps were in complete unison, and every step of their march led them closer to the violent turmoil that they would soon encounter. The rifle was hard and cold and struck against his shoulder with every moment. Father held back cries of pain, as it hit an infected wound from a previous conflict. The soldiers' stomachs ached with the pains of hunger, but they stormed on. They were valiant soldiers who had committed their lives to preserving their country's honour. Father and the rest of the soldiers were so engrossed in the rhythm of their march that they did not see the approaching enemy line
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At the time; I believed him, but little did I know that father's journey to Afghanistan was not only a physical one, but also spiritual. As father stepped on the bus, he wiped his combat boots, detaching himself from all emotional connections. Father’s love crumbled, like the small pieces of hard army biscuits, that fell down the back of the seat. Father’s kindness and patience were shorn off with the strands of his golden-blonde hair that now lies in the dark grains of Afghanistan. Father buried not only his best friends, but also his hopes and dreams.
A crack of thunder resounded like the fire of a gun and removed father from his trance. He sat up straight, panting heavily. Beads of sweat had built up on his forehead and streamed down his face. I ran to father and enveloped him in a hug, hoping to seek the familiar comfort of his large, bulky arms. Father stared at me with a face of no emotion. He thrust me off his lap and stared into the distance. It was clear that father was still haunted by the familiar sound of a firing gun. Somehow I had finally accepted that father was no longer with …show more content…
He watched his children grow up, lose their first teeth, blow out their birthday candles and begin to explore the wonders of life. Father completed every mundane task of his simple life without any extra thought or emotion. No one could feel the intense pain and guilt that my father harboured. It was late in the summer of my fourteenth year when we came home to father’s body. Haunted by his violent memories of the battlefield and mourning the loss of his brothers, father mixed himself a cocktail of prescription drugs and vodka, washing away all the pain that had drowned and dominated his every being. Father’s coffin was wrapped in the flag of New Zealand, an honor that father would have been immensely proud of. Part of me felt sad, but the other part had already done its grieving. When father returned from Afghanistan, only half of him was sent back. Father’s body was returned to us, but not his soul. The loving spirit of my father was shattered into the wounds of the war. I believed that while father had been present physically, his spirit still breathed and lived in the grains of Afghanistan. Father had not killed himself to be rid of the pain, but rather to reconnect with his spirit from before the
At the time; I believed him, but little did I know that father's journey to Afghanistan was not only a physical one, but also spiritual. As father stepped on the bus, he wiped his combat boots, detaching himself from all emotional connections. Father’s love crumbled, like the small pieces of hard army biscuits, that fell down the back of the seat. Father’s kindness and patience were shorn off with the strands of his golden-blonde hair that now lies in the dark grains of Afghanistan. Father buried not only his best friends, but also his hopes and dreams.
A crack of thunder resounded like the fire of a gun and removed father from his trance. He sat up straight, panting heavily. Beads of sweat had built up on his forehead and streamed down his face. I ran to father and enveloped him in a hug, hoping to seek the familiar comfort of his large, bulky arms. Father stared at me with a face of no emotion. He thrust me off his lap and stared into the distance. It was clear that father was still haunted by the familiar sound of a firing gun. Somehow I had finally accepted that father was no longer with …show more content…
He watched his children grow up, lose their first teeth, blow out their birthday candles and begin to explore the wonders of life. Father completed every mundane task of his simple life without any extra thought or emotion. No one could feel the intense pain and guilt that my father harboured. It was late in the summer of my fourteenth year when we came home to father’s body. Haunted by his violent memories of the battlefield and mourning the loss of his brothers, father mixed himself a cocktail of prescription drugs and vodka, washing away all the pain that had drowned and dominated his every being. Father’s coffin was wrapped in the flag of New Zealand, an honor that father would have been immensely proud of. Part of me felt sad, but the other part had already done its grieving. When father returned from Afghanistan, only half of him was sent back. Father’s body was returned to us, but not his soul. The loving spirit of my father was shattered into the wounds of the war. I believed that while father had been present physically, his spirit still breathed and lived in the grains of Afghanistan. Father had not killed himself to be rid of the pain, but rather to reconnect with his spirit from before the