Sammy

Sammy was the loyal one. He was loyal to the general. Short and muscular, and a little stiff. He too was a quite one, much like the general. But he knew how to give orders well, and made sure we followed. If we screwed up, he still kept that quite stiff demeanor, as though nothing happened, but underneath it all, you knew he was brewing. We were a team with a solid pecking order, and everyone knew thier place. I was in the lowest tier, having arrived fairly recently. Than there was Yifti, one step above me, and he would make it show. But all in all we got on, and of course the work needed to get done, as best as we possibly could. And the ultimate source of it all was the General, and for now he was gone.

The General

It was not long before we realized the General was in another world. We could no longer see the the cotton combine out in the distance field, as we readily would see normally. He would disappear for days,lost in a past battle of his own making. Of course we were concerned, and when his wife Rivka called to check up on him, we would assure her that he was still out in the fields and soon would be coming back, when we knew that most likely he would remain for yet another night out in the darkness. And even in the break of day, when our expectations were high, still he would not appear.

He would come back to us.

He would come back to us, in the hot summer nights,after days out in the open fields. His face backed by the burning sun, turned a weeping red,which he was too proud to notice. And even when we tried to remedy his burns,he flatly refused, and marched without a word back home. He held a tall stand, and when he walked, his pace was slow and gentle and slightly naive,as though he had been lost in thought again. we did not discuss the wars,nor anything about his past. we let him be the general that he was,wordless and un-afraid.

The General

I found him in the distant field,inside the large cotton combine, rippled by the the distant heat. He fought all the great battles and returned home intact, if not bruized by the loss of so many; some of whom, who came from these parts. And now he was out in the distant field, where he would remain for days, perhaps pondering the losses, or the gains of war, which never really amounted to much. We left him there, to seak his own peace, and, when he was ready he would come back to us

Windows

His favorite, were the windows of his travels. How he could lookout from a train window without end. The landscape flowing by, and in the distance a small house passing by, without even a marked presence. He would wonder who lived and died there,and what stories one would find,if only to spend a day there or perhaps a lifetime. And then a tree somewhere in the distance, All alone, abandoned yet flowing with life,regal in the distance; and he would wonder what it would be like to live under those sleepy branches, even for a day or an hour, or perhaps a life time. Amen.

Windows

Then there were the windows of my childhood, when I peered out from a wooden school house, looking out onto the open grass. We lived far north of our comfort zones,surrounded by hostile eyes. At times we slept underground, where the rumbling earth kept us awake, and wondered when our fathers would return. We kept ourselves well amused with marching songs and playful skits, and if we were lucky, ventured outdoors to the piercing light of day, where we would continue to play. But it was never the same as when the fire of war dimmed, and burned less bright,and our childhood freedom could again venture out without fear. That was what the North had become. and even in the comfort of my old school house, i could no longer breath as I was meant to.

Windows

My life started with a window, where my grandfather first glimpse cought my naked infant eye. That was in a land ancient and new,where the cypress trees could tell you tales of lost histories, wars that no one could remember. Now I see my father through a window lost in his mind inside an Alzhimers facilty in a land thats new and the wars are easily forgotten.

Kafka

I was living across the street from Kafka's grave. Looking out my window a green canopy with wild marsh faced me, as I looked out the window. The traffic buzzed in the background. It hummed like a morning prayer. The birds were always loud there, and yet it enough to merely stand and look out toward Kafka. I felt no need to venture closer. It was enough.