Creek Running North

Another sweet-faced boy from Contra Costa County died in Fallujah in November. He was proud of his Marine uniform, his family told the papers. In the photo I saw, the uniform dwarfed him: his thin face, his deer-in-headlights eyes, his mouth the sensitive girls in his class must have loved, dreaming of putting their hands on his jaw, all swallowed by that dress white hat, that high black collar.

Dead now, killed in the firefight to “secure” Fallujah.

I have wanted to write about this kid in the few weeks since he died, but what would I say? In the remote chance that they’d read this, I don’t wish to pour salt in his mother’s wounds, to twist his father’s gut any more than it is already. How horrible to have strangers pontificate over a family tragedy. Perhaps knowing that I share even the smallest portion of their desolation would ameliorate any rancor over my feelings about this hateful, evil war. But who am I? A year ago, I might have been a casual acquaintance, encouraging their son to seek other options. But it’s too late now, and anyway Phil Ochs already put it best.