WAR STORY

It is 110 degrees in Iraq. Comparisons to hell pile-up.
The stubble on his face would definitely be irritating her cheek right now. It would probably cause some erythema and itching…the rising of blood to the capillaries in her face, like blushing, but different. It isn’t, because she is dead. She hasn’t ‘passed-away’. She hasn’t moved on (there is a marked lack of movement, matter-of-fact).
She is just plain dead.
Well, not ‘plain’ dead; somewhat grotesquely dead. There are…pieces missing. So the stubble on her daddy’s chin is of no concern. He is doing something akin to nuzzling, only more forceful. It looks as though he has lost his mind, as he may well have. He is babbling, crying, and retching all at the same time. I cannot understand a thing he says. I don’t have his language…he is in pain, that much is aparent.
His little girl is dead.
Her legs invite horrible comparisons to cooked meat of other types. It smells nauseatingly familiar. Not because I have seen this before; but because I have participated in many backyard BBQ’s…this is not right…
People are not supposed to look and smell like this.
Father’s are not supposed to outlive their daughters.
Again, I don’t have the language. This is the most negatively transcendant thing I have experienced up to this point…and I have a job to do.
That man had the whole universe in him.
All that is in him…or was in him; all the knowledge, pain, hate, and; as demonstrated; love, makes him a cosmos unto himself. Every inch of it; every fiber of his being is now contaminated with the death of his little girl. Nothing will ever be the same for him for the remainder of his short life. I can almost see his soul leaving…is that what madness looks like? What a mercy if it is!
She is dead, and selfishly I keep turning it over in my mind in order to feel gratitude…there, but for the grace of God go I…God, that is the ‘name’ I was looking for. The idea of anything being gracious seems absurd right now.
When you point a finger in accusation at God, as all people of conscience must, from time-to-time; where exactly do you point?
The sky may seem the natural choice, but the sky is an example of natural beauty, even at its most furious.
It won’t do.
I need to keep this sense of resentment. I want to coddle the disgust, disappointment, and yes, hate I feel for Him at times like this. And times like this are very common now.
How can we remain human after this!?
I have seen the reduction of flesh into meat, of PERSON into OBJECT.
Person into object. Person into object. She into it. And so on.
If any sort of faith I had survives to this point, it is in order to have something to blame.
So I accuse Him, with mindfulness of all my quasi-romantic notions of ‘the devil’s role’ and the Jewish tradition of argument with the creator…
I am obligated to hold Him to the standard!
And, do I even believe in the first damn place?!
The answer is, it doesn’t matter at all. No matter how much sadness, indignation, pain, disgust, disappointment, or hate we feel He would be above all and thus, aloof.
I almost wish the story of Christ were true (for me, at least). That way, I could meditate on the’ suffering of God’ when these things assail me. I would relish the thought of His pain. It is less than fair, though would be better than nothing.
But that comfort is also denied.
She had no blood left in her to flush her cheeks. That had been left, I imagine, on the steps of her home; amongst shards of glass and the shreds of skin that adorn the threshold.
I will be seeing her again; though not in the ‘sweet bye-and-bye drivel of popular ‘chicken soup for the idot’s soul’ type of religion…
I willl dream of her.
She will be called up purposely perhaps; in order to stir myself from complacency.
All this changes nothing…except me.
I want to die when I see her.
I want the world to burn. I give up.
I want only to hold my own children.
I want God to be real, and to feel shame!
I want to rub His face in the misery of His own creation!
We didn’t ask for this!
Hide yourselves from an indifferent God’s face; it consumes us!
I will try to forget because I want to regain…what? Innocence?
Something, anyhow.
“Praised and extolled be the Lord…” the first words of the Kaddish come to mind.
Absurd…and more than that; obscene!
No prayer is worthy of her life. Only the anguish that is saturating the room is a fitting requiem.
She wasn’t even mine; I never knew her; but I want her back. My heart breaks for her father. He is done for. If there is anything after this; any existance after death I will find her and tell her what happened was an accident. I will say that no one ever wanted to hurt her; the world loves a little girl like her! But I wonder:
Can you lie in heaven? It would seem neccessary.
Another selfish thought:
Thank ‘god’ I didn’t have to hear her crying.
Postscriptum:
She is still here, in a sense. She is in chemical-resistant dreams. Sometimes her face is that of one of my daughters; sometimes it morphs with another scene of utterly terrible shit.
But you know: I am grateful for those dreams.
They offer a pain that, by its contrast with my more common joy; accentuates the latter.
And I know that as long as I live, her memory does.
To paraphrase Shakespere: “…so long lives this; and this gives life to thee.”
I don’t know her name.