My Dad Fought in a War

My dad fought in a war.

He didn’t fight it in the shadow of a flag, there was no need to; life sometimes just puts a helmet on your head and a badge on your chest and you’ve got to play the cards you’re dealt. After all, he’s not the patriot, reckless or idealistic type.

It was a relentless war, the kind that lasts too long, that leaves scars both physical and emotional, that feeds on cruel goodbyes from the windowsill, a hardly concealed tear in the cheek, wife and children waving a dirty cloth (heavens know if widow and orphans-to-be), no news from the front, life on the verge of nightmare.

It was a war with no generals, no chain of command, no medals or folded flags, no lengthy campaigns, no bullets shot or letters sent, no news coverage, no casualties report or last minute cavalry charges; but trenches were dug, faces were stained, silence was broken, sides were taken, scorched earth policies were followed, blood was shed and a new world order map was traced.

That war my dad fought in was called stomach cancer. And he won. We all did.

Número de familiares en el extranjero: 1. Planes don’t take off at night.

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