1. When we played war as boys, we never died. Dead was a reset button, a do-over, a quarrel over who killed who. Maybe we played fair. Maybe we dropped our toy guns and crumpled on the grass, clutching with grunts like gut-shot movie soldiers. Grimaced and closed our eyes, but only just. Through the curves of a squint, a summer sky blue and infinite, heavy with the raucous shouts of the other boys. 2. All those close calls. That time in Afghanistan the SUV drove past the white rocks and into the red ones—white all right, red is dead—a local in the backseat jabbering jib. What did he say? Translator: “He say, WE ARE DRIVING INTO MINEFIELD.” 3. When we played war as men, the wounded on their backs—they called our names, their mothers’ names, the names of all gods past and present. We crammed wads of cloth into gaping cavities. Wet organs slipped past blind fingers. Flesh grew purple, distal to the tourniquet. We clenched fists, held hands as warmth fled. Pounded on sullen chests. 4. Baghdad to Balad on Route Tampa. My little white truck passing another Army supply convoy, a semi rig swerved out and sideswiped … Continue reading When We Played