About Him

He still sleeps with the same blanket that covered him in Iraq. He wraps it tightly around his body as if it were his baby blanket from years ago. At night I watch him grasp the ends of the blanket and squeeze it tightly between his fingers, as if someone might try to wrestle it away. He holds his blanket close. He feels safe hiding underneath the camouflage. It serves him today as it did in war. It covers him; his secrets, his scars, and anything else he encountered there that still haunts him.

When he sleeps, I catch tears that stream down his face. Each tear I wipe away represents someone or something that happened there. I watch the tear trail scatter on the dust.

His tears remind me of the rain there that he described. Drops would roll down his skin, forming a layer of paste that held together bits of sand carried by the wind. He would wear a thick layer of muck until it crumbled off.

I know when he is there. His moans help me paint a picture of the same hell night after night. His shrill cries wake the household; however, no one speaks of these late-night interruptions. I have adapted to his cold night sweats and frequent nightmares. I wait for them when his eyes close and his breathing becomes deep and slow. It is only a matter of time before they visit him.

He says their names in his sleep. They sound familiar to me, names I have heard in his stories. Though he does not often speak of his time there, he finds moments in the night when I least expect it to tell me a tale. I wish I could hear all of his stories, and maybe one day I will, but for now I perch on the edge of my seat every time he starts one.

He has told me stories of his unit busting down doors in search of weapons. These stories are disturbing because they always end up with shots being fired. I have heard him go into those houses in his dreams.

Bombs detonate in his dreams as well. I hold him close under the blanket as he covers his head for safety. I hear bits and pieces, enough to know what’s transpiring. I imagine it in my head as though I am there with him.

He tells me he rarely remembers his dreams and nightmares. I wonder if he chooses not to remember them, or if he simply does not want to talk about them. I don’t want to embarrass him; I just want to hear all of it. He lived that experience so I would not have to. My curiosity stems from gratitude and interest.

My favorite story has nothing to do with guns, but everything to do with war. He told me that the soldiers would watch Finding Nemo night after night.

“‘Put on that fish movie!’ they would yell over and over again,” he laughs as he remembers it. I feel warm inside thinking of our troops watching Disney movies together. But it only lasts a moment because the reality of their youth hits me, and I realize how much they were risking at such a young age.

There is one thing we don’t talk about: how many people he killed in the war. Why not? It does not help. When we first started hanging out, I remember him telling me how he appreciated my asking intelligent questions about Iraq. He said he felt uncomfortable when people would only ask him the number of people he killed or how it felt to take someone’s life. Though I had shamefully wanted to know those answers, I decided not to ask. I desperately wanted to know the details of what happened there, but I knew I had to refrain from asking him his death toll. When people ask his number, he responds, “I don’t know.”

He does not feed into their appetite for gruesome details and exaggerated numbers; I can see the disappointment in their eyes. But...