Nothing from the outside can get between it. And when you die, it’s a pure death and it’s well earned and it lasts beyond the final gunshot. His breath comes slowly and is shallow. Then he thinks of his wife. He hasn’t thought of her much since coming to this country. She worked more now and probably didn’t think of him a lot either. He hopes not. And you got yourself all caught up in this goddamned shooting and you forgot about her, didn’t you?
There is a thing about dying for a woman that is very personal. It is like an oath. A promise that though you might not have given her great things in life, you’ll damn sure try in death. With war, it is nothing. Dying is valueless and empty. He tries to move but can’t and he knows there are tears and the Afghan and the soldier can see them, shimmering streaks under the moonlight, but he can’t move to wipe them away and he’s ashamed. Well you tried, he thinks. Yes, you damn sure did try. Don’t worry for me, love. And please don’t be mad. I tried.
The American looks up at the stars once again and feels the cool of the dry ageless dirt underneath his legs and his arms and he can see the Afghan to his right, kneeling, quiet and patient.
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