My brother is going back to Hell at the end of the month. He'll be stopping by New Jersey and Kuwait on the way.
I'm thirteen years older than he is; we weren't raised together. I don't know him very well. Still I love him, and when my brother is in Hell, the war turns into THE WAR. I always feel sad when a soldier dies, but when he's in Hell, I ask: WHICH soldier died? Was he mine?
During his last tour through Hell, while driving oil from North Hell to Hell's capitol, he was hit. Bad things happened to the other guy in the truck, but my brother only suffered hearing damage and a badly tweaked back. He was lucky. Lucky to have only witnessed a really bad outcome. Lucky to only have permanent hearing loss in one of his ears. Lucky that he's got limbs attached to that tweaked back of his. Lucky to be alive to go back and do it again.
Getting out is not going to be easy, but I am beginning to think that everyone in power should have one person they love in the heat and misery, in danger, so THE WAR could never be in lowercase again. So that each time a soldier dies in the war, every leader must ask WHICH soldier, was he mine? So that each leader and each citizen of the United States of America says, "Remind me again why we're in Hell." So that someone finds a way to get us the hell out.