A good kid and the surviving members of his unit come home from the war in Iraq today. I'm sure there will countless coming home parties in and around our fair city to celebrate this event. The mayor, who also had a son return, has asked that the citizenry line the streets and the route as the soldiers disembark and wind their way home to their families, friends and assorted loved ones. Over the next few days, there will be countless drinks poured and arms and glasses toasts raised in their honor. I'm sure that a general feeling of relief that we hadn't lost one of our own will prevail.
I don't know if and/or when our good kid will ever want to talk about his experience over there. I'm sure he will when he feels good and ready and truth be told, I think he's earned that right. I hope some of my companions have the good sense and common decency not to push the subject and to let him savor the moment rather than to re-live those in the recent past so soon. I'm hoping we can all put aside what might seem our morbid curiosity and give the man the space he needs but I'm fearful that the combination of too much booze and the need to know might prove too strong. Let's hope not.
When the numbers are all tallied up, his unit lost forty eight men. That's not counting the maimed and the injured. That's a disproportionate number when you consider the units size and the amount of time they spent over there. I'm sure there was some heavy shit that went on and we should consider ourselves lucky that he wasn't one of them.
I hope that during all the mayhem and hugging that is bound to occur, somebody takes a moment and raises a glass and a toast to those who didn't make it home or those that were injured.
I think a good kid would want it that way.