End of November

How often do you get to comment on the end of November? 

It’s an odd sensation to feel, yet alone ask.  I was thinking of a boy named Andrew.  He was the eldest son, so inherited all the unspoken hope of his parents.  He lived a comfortable life striving to win his father’s approval and his mother’s affection.  His body grew strong and able as his heart was fertile for giving and loving.  His obligations closed in upon him when he neared the time to make his own choices; he went away to war at the ripe old age of eighteen. Sent off with the sounds of pride and adulation; he was selfless and wanted to make a difference; to his friends he had succeeded. Two weeks after arriving to the front lines his vehicle slid off an earthen embankment and rolled into a reservoir. He was knocked unconscious and perished in the murky waters between towns his family could never pronounce. It is a sad tale of loss, of unfulfilled hopes and dreams. Most of us couldn’t mourn the loss because we were invested in private concerns that consumed our attention.  The tragedy of life requires feeling it up close and personal. 

   I was thrust into heartache at random.  It was my turn to be the flesh and blood representative who would look a grieving mother in the eyes and deliver the blow that would change her heart forever.  It cost us all, as I mourn that boy every year since.  Mostly I mourn the fractured dreams of the surviving family, each and collectively. It pains me every time I go back there, back to my last and final duty before retiring from the military.

  I used to worship power. The kind where I thought having command would change lives in an instant; I would point and speak my orders, and they would obey.  Only when I was involved in the loss of a soldier’s life did I comprehend the price of such a privilege. I have lost the taste for controlling others.  I have no desire to instruct anyone to do any of my bidding.  I only hope to never have to bury another loved son or daughter.  I may not have pulled the trigger or pointed to where death was the price for winning; even enemy have parents…but I grieve for all of those who are involved in such a deadly dance and are unaware of the burden of it until they’ve had a piece of soul stolen. 

   The year closes its ambition on the 1^st of December, laying aside those goals that are clearly too grand to accomplish in the dusky fleeting winter days.  I feel the weight of those past months where mistakes took such a horrible turn in the unexpected and unintentional end of life.  There is no pall of regret, nor lament, life ends without preamble all of the time.  I was never asked to judge, but I am humbled by knowing how fragile each day is balanced upon the other.  How continuing happy contentment is so delicately unaware of change approaching... as it arrives; at the end of November.