Back in the grains of Afghanistan
When my father returned from war, I had assumed that we would all fall back into our routines. I had assumed that father, and I would bike down to the beach every Sunday and swim until it was dark. I had assumed that father would read me a bedtime story each night, his eyes brightening and voice exciting whenever a princess story was near. However, this was not true. When father came back from war, his face was of no recognition. His once warm, full skin was stained and wrinkled by the harsh climate of Afghanistan. Father’s eyes were cold and hollow, sunken like his dreams and ideas about war.
After the war, father didn’t want to read princess stories anymore. He declared that there was no such thing as a happy ever after, and placed the book back onto the shelf. Father quietly left the room, forgetting that his absence meant that I now slept with a nightlight. For the rest of the night, I didn’t sleep. Shadows lurched around the pale, cream walls of my bedroom. Outside trees struck my window, making scratching noises that mirrored the emotional turmoil that ensued in my head. My breaths became hot and
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“I love you daddy, please stay with me,” I had begged, with a mouth full of tears. Father smiled, gave mother a kiss on the cheek and said, “It’s okay darling. I will be home soon. I won’t be long,”
At the time; I believed him, but little did I know that father 's journey to Afghanistan was not only a physical one, but also spiritual. As father stepped on the bus, he wiped his combat boots, detaching himself from all emotional connections. Father’s love crumbled, like the small pieces of hard army biscuits, that fell down the back of the seat. Father’s kindness and patience were shorn off with the strands of his golden-blonde hair that now lies in the dark grains of Afghanistan. Father buried not only his best friends, but also his hopes and