All the Horrible Girliness

Ten months ago, my brother sent in his taxes. He visited family in Colorado, even the estranged people, and behaved diplomatically. He told our mother not to pray for him, but to pray for his men.

He disconnected his cell phone. He made arrangements for his bills. He went shopping. He bought more armor than is issued, better armor, and rolls of Copenhagen, and boxes of Mach 3 razors.

His dining room table was neatly littered with stacks of paper. An open laptop with iTunes at the front sat facing the kitchen. His room was the same as it had been on base, in San Diego, except the walls were not stacked concrete blocks.

He met his nephew and we all went to dinner at El Torito. We laughed. Our waitress flirted with him. My brother is horribly handsome.

After dinner, we took rides in his little car. What was it, an Infinity? He played the music very loud, like always.

*

Iraq is a fucking mess. Whether or not there was a reason to go there, it's a fucking mess now. It may have been going okay for awhile, but Fallujah remained the wild card. Then Fallujah got fucked up big time. Four Americans strung up on a bridge, dragged through the streets. How could Bush save face with what the Marines proposed? To quietly take care of the perpetrators, to continue with their previous plan of attack, to slowly and invisibly help the Iraqi Police take Fallujah over a long period of time? The cameras were rolling, and Bush was angry. What could he do? At home, we said, Bomb them back to the stone age! Badgered, how could he make the right decision? And what has the wrong decision cost?

It is 1:56 AM for my brother now. It is getting chilly. One day, he had to wear a sweatshirt against the cold, then he saw the temperature: eighty-five degrees.

posted by Samus @ 3:50 PM