90 (a.k.a. A Life Story)

Current mood Alert: respectful

 Once upon a time, there was a young man who went off to fight in an ugly and nasty war; a war that made brothers kill brothers and women were left widows with children for no other reason than no reason. The only surviving child of his parents, they had pleaded  pleaded with him, but it was of no use. He did what every other young man his age wanted to do. 

By the time the terrible war between brothers was over, the prayers of the young man's parents had been heard, or so they thought, because he finally came back, alive, a bitter old man of twenty. For even if he had physically survived, he was far from unharmed. Part of him, the young man he was and should have been still, had died in the trenches. 

Life went on, of course, and the young bitter old man met a woman, married her, and eventually they formed a big family. And even though no one knew, he never stopped having dreams of the war, of the horror...and of the one who had been the best friend of his childhood. 

Because of their different political views, they had found themselves standing on opposite sides of the trenches. The other young man wasn't as lucky, though; he never came back from the front. 

The young bitter old man didn't tell anyone about this one certainty that plagued his dreams. He was sure, as sure as he could be, anyway (because one isn't really conscious of what's going on in the middle of the mayhem) that it had been him the one who killed his best friend. At first it was only a suspicion. A something in the pit of his stomach. Something about their positions. For many years, he tried to recall something, anything, that could make him see he was wrong. Instead, he could clearly replay their positions over and over. And the desperate feeling of shooting or being shot. Eventually, the suspicion turned into  certainty in his mind. If that was or wasn't how it all really happened, his mind didn't care.

One day, many years later, one of the old man's youngest sons died unexpectedly. Shot, at 23, by his very best friend. They were in army training and they were playing with the gun from the new equipments. The friend never thought it could be loaded. 

No one saw the man cry about it. Of course, no one could know that, for him, the tragedy had a deeper meaning. It was the ultimate confirmation of something he had been expecting all his life to be confirmed. To him, his son's tragic death was his rightful retribution, in the form of a most cruelly ironical retake, for what he had done so many years before.

Today, the old man turned ninety. His wife died a few years ago, but he still lives in the same house. His mind is crisp and clear, his body slightly behind. He doesn't like birthdays, especially his, and usually speaks of dues already paid and time off being too long for his tastes and patience.   

As much as I try, I can't even start to imagine half of what he has lived and seen. What it is like to have seen most of your friends go, one by one. Your parents. Your wife. Your son. Your independence. Your old soldier pride (although he doesn't lack on that one, genio y figura...)

I know that anyday he will get his wish and we will get an unwelcomed and sad phone call. But, as he says, he's paid his dues. He's calm and ready, and, if no less bitter, quite the contrary actually, at least more accepting. And so we should.

Even if he's not, I'm happy for him getting this far. 

Happy birthday. 

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