Last year I was still lost in the wonder of independence. Two years ago, still in High School. Three years, I had a father. Four, I lived in a different house. Seven years ago we got Sox. Eight, I went to Clifton. Eleven years ago we lived on McConnell Drive and I went to Briar Vista. Fourteen, I start school. Sixteen, I learn the violin. Seventeen years ago I met my sister. Twenty.

Where does the time go? Do I change this much every year? What is the most changing experience up there? In the last twelve months I've matured, maybe not as noticably, but it's there. I've become more sure of myself and more spontaneous. I've become happier and, perhaps, a little wiser. It's really kind of scary to look back and try to find where I got pieces of who I am. Did anyone guess that I would come to love the violin, religon, school? My lifetime goal in third grade was to go to a Georgia v. Georgia Tech game. Every year up there shaped years of my life. I am not who I was at Chamblee, not the kid who fought with his dad.

I can remember images out of the distant past. Playing horse with Grandaddy... helping him build my tricycle... driving Uncle Dick's tractor... having Grandpa tell me that I'm dutch... Ice Cream makes my feet hurt... Swinging on Dad's home-made swing and playing monster in the living room... Dancing with Mom and her scarf... Playing violin for my pre-school class... rides home from soccer practice - telling riddles... Watching Uncle Charlie build his doll house... eating Grandma's waffles on Sundays... Jumping on Molly in the door-way... Seeing my little sister for the first time... Shooting basketball through the bottom of the basket...
Everything just like a picture I might have seen sometimes, not much real clear memory of time-flow, just images. How many of those photos in my mind will I be able to convey to my children someday. "This is what your Grandfather was like........"

A feint within a feint within a feint. A plan and a counter-plan. Outwitting your opponent. Seeing the trap and letting him think you stumble into it. Plotting for four turns down the road without losing sight of now. Check-mate.

Centuries old and still the best war game of all time. So complex and yet so infuriatingly simple. A child knows how each piece moves; can send in attack after attack towards the king; takes every kill he can find. An older player sees the strategy behind the moves; how pieces play off of each other; lets two, three, four pieces stand at a stale-mate until an upper hand can be reached. And the experienced veteran knows the nunances of moving a rook one space left just so that it is there half a game later; can have two fronts with a third goal so subtle that it is inpercievable until it happens; will know how his opponent will move and can control their pieces with his own. An old saying maintains that if you throw a frog into boiling water, he will jump out. But if the water is cold when you put him in there and then heats up, he will let himself cook. If I could plan a guilt-free war, I would love to pit myself against another man; my mind agianst his. I want to be able to read someone's move from the way they line their troops up on the field. Such subtle things, and the masters see into the other's mind like Bach saw into an organ.

And then to take that same skill, that same ability and put it into everyday living. To be able to hear a twist in a companion's voice and know. Subtly is such a lost art in the modern world. Or at least in my world. Everything around is so overt and straight. And that that isn't is either mildly masked or pure jest. I suppose it's nice to be able to trust everyting so freely, to not have to worry that my words and thoughts; the way I look at people and the order in which I do things is being disected. But there is still that cutting edge on the mind that I can see but never venture out to. And quite honestly, even if I were to, it would only be for my own pleasure. I couldn't bring myself to use that manner of political power over my friends, and there are so very few out there who would like to play my game against me.

Victory

The soldiers lie
Their faces faceless in their multitude
Their chains of war lifted
From sea to shining sea
The trenches flood over.
Not with water, nor mud.
But with death. The rivers run red with blood.
The air has a presence to it. The reaper has come
With his scythe and harvested
The lives of the innocent.

The memories flood.
Each man a legacy.
The children scream at home
"DADDY, WHY DID YOU LEAVE"
the wind chants

"Daddy's gone 'cross the ocean,
Leaving just a memory.
A snapshot in the family album
Daddy, what else did you leave for me?"

The wives unable to answer in their own grief
Suffering
Torment
Despair

The battlefield is poisoned
Not from gas. But from memory.
The memories rise into the air and a mirage
Is seen by the survivors.
Is seen by no one

But smile young man.
You get to go home.
Yes, your brothers are dead.
Yes, your friends are dead.
Yes, they died for a reason they did not know.
Smile young man.
You get to go home.

But why aren't you smiling?
The war is over, you survived.
But you don't know who you are.
You know only how to hate.
How to kill, how to hurt.
How to disdain, despise, destroy, die.

I know of life.
I know of its lack
I have seen it
I have taken it.
I watched him die.
I watched him suffer.
I wish it was me.
I wish it was nobody.
I don't know what I wish.
I don't want to die
I wish I had never been born.

At least the days of
Walking up and down in the earth are over.
But the hedge is gone
The protecting wall has been lifted
And the flood of reality comes.
And the world is cold
And the world is twisting and spinning
And the world has skipped you
And the world doesn't care.

The countries of the world rejoice at their victory.

People will tell you that you never know exactly what you have until you lose it. This is not entirely true. There are times when you have something, and you know for that one second exactly how precious it is. It is like trying to grasp a concept that eludes you. You can think about it for hours, and then for one quick second, you understand. And then the understanding goes away.
Then there are the times where you don't have it anymore, but you still don't miss it. Loss is not chronic pain. Loss can be easy. There is that first second of disbelief. You find out and your first reaction is one of denial. "No." That's it. And you almost just go through the motions of saddness. And then it builds for about five minutes. It's a situation where you want to be alone and you want to be with friends. And after about five minutes, you begin to rationalize again and you regain control. The mind has an incredible power to lie to itself and hide from itself. So you push whatever you feel out and do the most practical of things. People will ask if you're alright, and you will answer yes. Grief for loss comes when you aren't fighting it. Everything becomes normal again and the most innocent thoughts are like daggers, because your back is turned to them. "Cool! I'll tell him that when I get home!" And like a mirror, things shatter. The very next thought is "No, I can't." The subtle things remind you of what things were like. All the e-mails and slogans floating around telling you to tell the people that you love that you love them one more time. All crap. They know that you love them, and you know that they love you. It doesn't hurt that you didn't get to say it one more time. It hurts because you want to say it now.
You never really recover from loss. There will always be more things to say. I guess the best way to cope is to remember aloud. "He would've like this." Funny, I've never really noticed that until now. Mom has been doing that for the past three years. Find someone who will remeber with you and say it. There is a strangeness that comes with peace. You all of a sudden stop and think..... yes.