Crying For the Light

by Paul Cherry

but what am I?

An infant crying in the night; An infant crying for the light; And with no language but a cry. Tennyson 1850

The sun peered meekly through the glass window, almost afraid to warm this special barracks. A bugle sounded off in the distance; morning was officially here, had it not gone off it would still be yesterday.

Ethan looked at his watch, disappointment replaced hope. The bugler had not made a mistake, even on his last day. Roger hadn't stirred an inch. Ethan envied his ability to sleep soundly. A man with an easy conscience can sleep heavily, he thought grabbing for a pack of cigarettes which lay in his shoes. As he smoked images of the future came flashing across his mind with the same constant plea: will they understand? The cigarette tasted stale but Ethan continued smoking, punishing himself because he knew he wouldn't be able to make them understand. Roger opened his eyes and turning to Ethan said, "Well, today's the day." There was hope in the way he said it as if something pleasant was going to happen. Ethan didn't reply. For Roger the army would become a memory; for Ethan, the army would become a past.

"Ethan, what's the first thing you're going to do when they've given you your discharge?"

"Thank them." The voice was caustic.

"Now, now, let's not be bitter." Roger sounded arrogant as if he were a judge or disciple of the times.

Ethan turned and glared at him. You stupid G.I. . . . You think I want this discharge because you want yours. He hated Roger, not because of the remark but the ignorance which had fostered it. Roger in his own enthusiasm had forgotten Ethan's sensitivity on the subject.

"I'm sorry. I didn't think."

Ethan just continued glaring.

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