administered by personnel weary
of routine, impolite in response
to complaint, impatient
with pain not their own.
Brain scans.
Drug screens.
Pressure checks.
And in between nutrition
consultations and post-surgical
follow-ups, the intercom warned:
Code 99, waiting room.
The island emptied.
Fifteen minutes later,
the resuscitation team lifted
Harry onto a gurney, gentled
thin, white linen up over
the crumbled sandstone of his face.
THAT ONE
Jonah claimed, was what a poem
should be. Emotion, wrapped in
imagery. A complete story, in eight
perfect stanzas. To me, it was one
small truth I observed while trying
to help wounded warriors. Some people
who worked at the hospital were healers
of physical wounds. Others mitigated
broken psyches. We did our level
damndest. But there were so many!
Daily, it seemed, their numbers
multiplied. Depression. Post-traumatic
stress disorder. Garden-variety anxiety.
Thoughts of suicide. Alcoholism
and drug abuse. Domestic violence.
Brains, in need of long vacations.
Most were salvageable. Some would
need services the rest of their days.
A few would shun them, and wind up
on the streets. But they were alive.
It’s been a couple of weeks since Luke
came home, in a box beneath a flag.
Celine must be drowning in a riptide
of shock and pain. Possibility
is a placid sea, easy to navigate until
roiled up by a random wind of fate.
If it were me, how long would it take
to surface and suck in air again?
I HAVE YET TO RECEIVE
The wedding guest list from Cole’s mom.
I can’t move forward without it, so I
give her another call. She picks up this
time. “Hi, Rochelle. I was wondering
about your guest list. I need it to book
the caterer. Oh, I chose the venue.
It’s this beautiful winery . . .” I go on
to describe the place and she doesn’t
utter a word until I say, “By the way,
my mom wondered if you’d like to stay
in our guest room, so you could save
a little money on a hotel room.”
I’m confused. I thought you were
getting married out here. That’s
what Cole told me. He said it would
only be a few people so not to worry
about a guest list, just go ahead and
invite who I want. June thirtieth, right?
“Wait. What? When did you talk to
Cole about it? Because, he and I never
decided to have the wedding in Wyoming.
We didn’t even pick the date. Not together.”
HOW COULD HE
Possibly think it was okay to choose
both date and location for our wedding?
Oh, and then not even bother to let
me know. That is seriously messed up.
I’m sorry, Ashley. I had no idea
Cole had made this decision on
his own. You discuss it with him,
then let me know what you want to do.
“Oh, I’ll discuss it with him, okay.”
I try not to sound as angry as I feel.
Not sure it’s working, though.
This is unbelievable. I hang up
with Rochelle, shoot Cole an e-mail.
It definitely reflects how pissed I am
right now. YOUR MOM TELLS ME YOU’VE
MADE ALL THE PLANS FOR OUR WEDDING.
LAST TIME I LOOKED, THAT WAS UP TO
THE BRIDE. THAT WOULD BE ME, IN CASE
YOU DIDN’T REALIZE THAT. OR HAVE YOU
DECIDED ON A DIFFERENT BRIDE, TOO?
I have no idea where he is or what
he’s up to. Can’t guess when he might
get back to me. One thing I know
is I can’t sit here and wait. Neither
do I want to spend this Sunday alone.
It’s late morning. I call Darian, but
there’s no answer. Probably still asleep.
Who sleeps in until eleven? Not Jonah,
I bet. Of course, what makes me
think he’s alone, or that he’d
want to do something with me,
even if he is? Conceited, much?
Whatever. Nothing ventured, nothing
gained. I really like being with him.
I feel weird calling, so I text him
instead. That way, if he wants, he can
just ignore it and pretend he didn’t
see it. SORRY TO BUG YOU ON SUNDAY.
DO YOU ROLLERBLADE? I’M THINKING
ABOUT GOING TO MISSION BEACH.
There’s a great, touristy boardwalk
and plenty of paved skating. It’s kind
of cool in early February, but it’s clear
today, and sunny. That, in itself, should
cheer me up. I go get dressed and by
the time I’m ready, there is a return
text. MEET YOU THERE OR PICK YOU UP?
YOU CAN ALWAYS CALL IF IT’S EASIER.
I call and he comes to get me,
in the Beamer, which is plenty
big enough for a couple of pairs
of Rollerblades. Cole would never
blade with me, or surf, either. And
I bet Jonah would never go around
his fiancé, to his mother, to plan
his wedding, either. Wait. Rocky ground.
I REFUSE
To think about the wedding.
Refuse to talk about Cole.
But I should talk about something
or it will be a very quiet ride to
Mission Beach. Maybe a joke.
“So, were you just sitting by your
phone, waiting for me to text you?”
In fact . . . Okay, no, not exactly.
Actually, I was going through
some of the early submissions
to our Poetry International Prize.
“Sounds like a semi-serious way
to spend your Sunday. Sunshine
and exercise sounds better to me.”
To me, too, obviously. Thanks
for the invitation. Sometimes I
totally forget about having fun.
In fact, seems like all the fun I’ve
had in a very long time is with you.
I have to admit that’s mostly true
for me, too. Don’t dare say it, though.
“Can I ask you something personal?
Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”
Gun shy, I guess. I’ve dated
a few women since my wife left.
They wanted to get serious right
away and I wasn’t ready for that.
“So, I’m a safe date?” It’s meant
to be funny, and he does laugh.
But then he says, I suppose you
could look at it that way. But
I also really enjoy your company.
There’s so much to like about you.
I’m glad his eyes are on the road.
My face must be a fabulous shade
of raspberry. “Thank you, Jonah.”
Time for a change of subject, I think.
“Tell me about the poetry prize.”
You’ve never entered? You should.
There’s a thousand-dollar prize.
Have you ever
submitted to our lit
mag? He goes on to list submission
requirements, deadlines, and details.
By the time he’s done, we’re there.
We lace up our blades, head down
the bike path and, unlike surfing,
I can most definitely hold my own
with Jonah on Rollerblades. It’s a great
workout and I’m so glad I came, and
doubly glad I asked Jonah to come along.
IT’S THREE DAYS
Before I hear from Cole. His e-mail is a gentle rebuke:
SORRY I COULDN’T GET BACK TO YOU
SOONER. IT’S BEEN CRAZY HERE,
WITH ALL THE PROTESTERS. ARE
YOU SEEING IT IN THE NEWS THERE?
KORAN BURNING ISN’T A BRILLIANT
IDEA. EVERYTHING WE’VE BUSTED
OUR BALLS TO BUILD IS CRUMBLING.
IT’S SCARY AS HELL AND I’M BETTING
A WEEK AFTER WE PULL OUT OF HERE
THE TALIBAN WILL OWN THE PLACE.
AS FOR THE WEDDING, GUESS I SHOULD
HAVE CLEARED IT WITH YOU FIRST.
BUT I FIGURED YOU’D BE OKAY WITH IT.
MOM STICKS CLOSE TO HOME. WE CAN
TAKE THE WEDDING TO HER, RIGHT?
MAKES THE MOST SENSE TO ME. OKAY,
NOW THAT’S SETTLED, IF YOU’RE GOING
TO SEND A CARE PACKAGE, DO IT SOON.
OH, AND WHAT’S UP WITH SPENCE?
He thinks things are settled? My reply is terse:
SPENCE IS BETTER. I HOPE IT’S OKAY
THAT I ASKED HIM TO BE AN USHER.
HE CAN’T TRAVEL TO WYOMING WHICH
SHOULDN’T BE A PROBLEM, SINCE I’M
PLANNING A CALIFORNIA WEDDING.
AT A WINERY. WITH FLOWERS AND
CAKE AND A WHOLE LOT OF GUESTS.
HOPE YOU CAN MAKE IT. I PUT YOUR
NAME ON THE INVITATIONS.
THAT’S BULL
I haven’t actually ordered
the invitations. And now
I’m not sure if I should, or
even if I want to. How can
he flat dismiss me and what
I want in such a condescending
way? He’s as bad as my dad.
Maybe even worse. We’ll see,
when he gets my e-mail. Am
I ridiculous, expecting a big
wedding—my first and, with
luck, only wedding, the one
I’ve thought about practically
forever? Am I out of line, refusing
to do it his way, and “take it
to her”? Am I psycho, wondering
who is more important to Cole,
me or his mother? Am I selfish,
wanting it to be me? I know he’s
got a lot on his mind. Bigger stuff
than guest lists, DJs, and floral
arrangements. Stuff like bullets
and bombs and body armor.
Unique boutique gowns are not
high on his priority ladder.
Maybe they shouldn’t be on
mine, either. I really don’t know
anymore. Am I just premenstrual?
Am I just being totally petty?
Rewind
JANUARY 2012
Five years after Cole and I met,
we had come an incredible distance,
together and apart. We had transformed.
Morphed into different people, because
of each other and in spite of each other.
In almost every way, we had grown up.
My growth came from self-discovery.
Choosing one path, journeying awhile,
changing direction. I had learned much
along the way. The elation of first love.
The anguish of separation. The meaning
of sacrifice. Courage. Overwhelming fear.
Patience. Impatience. Wresting control.
Relinquishing control. I still wasn’t always
certain when to wrest and when to relinquish,
but time is perhaps the best teacher.
I had withdrawn into self-inflicted solitary.
Clawed my way out. Retreated again.
I had pushed envelopes. Pushed buttons,
allowed mine to be pushed. Decided
I’d rather be the pusher than the pushee.
I had come to realize that life is fluid,
and while that can be a very scary thing,
riding the flow is better than trying to stop it.
COLE’S GROWTH
Had largely been imposed on him.
Yes, he had volunteered for the ride.
But how many young people truly
comprehend the face of war until
it’s staring them down? You can’t patrol
unfriendly villages without embracing
paranoia. You can’t watch your battle
buddies blown to bits without jonesing
for revenge. You can’t take a blow to
the helmet without learning to duck.
And you can’t put people in your crosshairs,
celebrate dropping them to the ground,
without catching a little bloodlust. Paranoia.
Revenge. Bloodlust. These things turn
boys into men. But what kind of men?
I had experienced much in that five
years. But it was nothing, compared
to what Cole had witnessed. Suffered. Done.
Each returning soldier is an in-the-flesh
memoir of war. Their chapters might vary,
but similar imagery fills the pages, and
the theme of every book is the same—
profound change. The big question
became, could I live with that kind of change?
AS I WAS FILLING OUT
The application to segue out of social
work and into creative writing, Cole
was earning the respect of his fellow
grunts, and working toward the rank
of sergeant. Getting there involved
some incidents deemed necessary
by the NATO forces, and atrocities
by many Afghani people. Nighttime
raids netted insurgents, but also flushed
harmless villagers from their homes.
Many never returned. In an effort to thwart
vehicles at checkpoints. As often
as not, they found no IEDs. Intelligence,
perhaps faulty, perhaps not, resulted
in indiscriminate U.S. bombs killing
innocent civilians, including women
and children. To be fair, the Taliban
felt no compunction about using kids
to carry weapons, serve as screens
and even as suicide bombers. Children
as young as six were gathered and taken
to training camps where they learned
the fine points of sacrificing themselves
to Allah. When someone comes at you
with explosives obviously strapped around
their middles, you take them out, no matter
how young they are. Even if they remind
you of a kid you know back home. Maybe
even your own kid. Soldiering was ugly.
After all that, the Taliban wanted to come
to the table and talk. ANA and ANP troops
were defecting, or just plain scared of
what might happen once the coalition
forces deserted the country. Despite years
of training and working hand in hand
to guarantee they would be in control,
that outcome was anything but assured.
U.S. troops, including Cole, began to feel
frustrated. Unappreciated. Downright angry.
Paranoia, revenge, and bloodlust
&nbs
p; were natural consequences of survival.
I WAS IN THE DARK
About most of that. Cole bottled
his feelings, kept them inside
where every event shook them
up like carbonated water. I only
knew when they finally blew.
He wasn’t supposed to rant, but
now and then it happened. Better
to fire off a barrage of words than
a spray of bullets, like soldiers who
wandered all the way off the deep
end. Some waited until they got home
and memory or boredom riled
them up. Then they’d go looking
for action. Sometimes they took
it out on strangers—crowds at
political rallies or random homeless
guys on the street. Other times,
it came down on people they knew.
Maybe even loved. One woman at
the shelter was married to an Army
vet. It took more than two years for
his PTSD to kick all the way into gear.
He never scared me, she said. But
one day, it was like the light went out
in his eyes. I swear I was looking
evil in the face. I thought he’d kill me.
He claimed it was the heat that set
him off, taking him back to Fallujah.
I made a mental note to make sure
Cole and I always had air-conditioning.
TRIPLE DIGITS
Days, defined by axial lean,
stretched long and longer
toward
the soft release of
summer night.
Awaken to the predawn
caress,
cool silver light
wrapped around eastern
hills, a lover. Slow
rotation into mid-morning
cerulean, warm and
flawless
as high Rockies hot
springs. Perpetual
revolution, the mercury
pushes past twin digit
luxury
into the realm of risk.
Terrestrial self-defense,
June’s mad celebration
lifts,
wet, on sprays
of July heat, darkens
the sky, thunders,
stuns the earth,
and for one black,
electric moment . . .
Everything is still.
Cole Gleason
Present
EARLY MAY
When I’m not studying for finals,
I’m working out the tiniest details
of my wedding. Eight weeks away.