From the Anthology
Veterans’ Voices
We all had crap to carry. Dog tags, gloves, patrol caps, ear plugs, ID cards, various other nonsense that we had to have in a pocket somewhere just in case some Sergeant Major decided to ruin our day by demanding to see our Army Values card when we passed by him in the hallway. That stuff was necessary, but it wasn’t IMPORTANT.
The calling card. Gotta have your minutes on you because you never know when you’re going to get your hands on a phone to call home. That was important.
The picture. No camera phones, no tablets, none of that. Old school photo paper inside a wallet or tucked in your headgear, laminated for safekeeping, peeling at the edges and dull in some spots from wear. You’d pull that picture out of your wallet, or your helmet, and try to transport your mind and heart to another place. That was important.
The loneliness. A lot of us carried that. Sure, just like anything heavy, we’d take turns carrying it, passing it around like a bottle of whiskey at a campfire, and sometimes we all carried it together. Even if you weren’t bearing the brunt of the load, you always knew it was nearby. That was important.
A guitar pick. Shoved deep in my wallet. A connection to home and a connection to the past. The guitar pick had belonged to my brother. Years later, and halfway around the world, I’d put the pick between my fingers and play a guitar that wasn’t there, yearning for home and for a young boy who would never get the chance to grow old. Shoved in the wallet next to that pick were regrets for canceled plans, missed soccer games, selfish decisions that kept me from spending time with him. Wasted chances that I would never get the opportunity to make up. That was important.
A military ID, an Army Values card, a calling card, a fading picture, and an unbearable anvil of regret and grief channeled into a guitar pick. Those were important.
Those are the things I carried.
