In trying to explain to my girlfriend green-on-blue attacks or approximate the political-military balancing act going on in the Wardak as can be gleaned from the news, I realize the futility of words. Explaining what happened, outlining the 'situation,' this is just to build a framework on which to hang some ghastly Truth about Death. That truth is the knowldege that no matter how much one explains or fills in the blanks of who, what, where, and when.... the question 'Why?' is never sufficiently answered. The faithful would say it was the will of a higher being.
The callous chalk it up to wrong place, wrong time.
Those in between must struggle with the chaos and random injustice of war. Details may emerge from the physical scene, the 'incident' as it will no doubt be termed, but one is always left with a part that still doesn't 'know.'
I know only that I remember the smiles of the dead, and these I can recall clear as day. White teeth, bright eyes and laugh lines. They are strange ghosts. These memories do not serve to justify their deaths or assuage any loss or explain any part of the 'Why?"
But they serve the soul much the same as an empty place setting at the table, or fresh flowers by a stone, or a shot of bourbon on the bar, never consumed, that sits there, still and pure, and says "You are dead, friend.... but you are not forgotten."
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