hand_of_skatan

A sliver on the horizon. An incision in the night. Dawn breaks; today has come. With the cleansing light of the new morning's sun we alight. Heavy, dull, gray, one of so many instruments aloft at this moment. But this plane is mine, it is mine, hers, his, all of ours. This is our ride home. More significantly this is the only hopefor a few.

Clouds part before us, air buffets around us. The beauty of dawn is breathtaking. No matter the country, this is something to behold. As I look out over a sea of clouds the internal workings of my being are twisted. Every inch of me is struggling to keep from crying. This is a privilege, seeing this. I'm supposed to enjoy this. But while I sit in the warm comfort of a cockpit seat, taking in a sight few get to see, there lays the shell of a man not a stones throw behind me.

The horrors of war are at my back and I must keep my composure. I must deliver these broken soldiers. These are not the tin soldiers of childhood fancy that may be soldered by the steady hands of father. They cannot be dusted off, repainted, and set back on the table for the next skirmish.

Few are recovered from war unchanged yet these few are forever not whole. All have left pieces of themselves. Who is left to scoop up the chaff? Where are the volunteers to put these puzzles back in order? Where are the kings men, where are his horses?

Time passes and the war endures. I've done my part; I've flown my missions, but today was different. Before today the word sacrifice was just a word. "Sacrifice" A name without a face. The dawn brought sacrifice to my eyes. I've now seen the embodiment of sacrifice. I looked at it, and I cried. Openly


sunrise

tin soldiers