By Clint Ryan

Eighth month in theater I now know 46 Celsius is past warm,
The armor I’m wearing isn’t helping my large frame cool.
The window in my tractor trailer only permits a mix of sand and heat.
Much like some jerk is tossing sand in front of a hair dryer that is aimed at me,
So tan now the friends I grew up with would hardly recognize this homesick shell.
Passing by another broken down car, not knowing if it is packed with explosives,
or was just left to rot in haste.
Stopping by a “friendly” store in a town older than the country
I serve, I purchase an ice cold Coke, spices and butter to add flavor to my MRE.
“Keeps ya going,” my sergeant remarks after seeing my purchases.
The little things that is. The familiarities that could be found anywhere in
small town USA and add comfort to a weary soul.
A letter from my mom complete with pictures of my family and home.
Thank God I am alone in my bunk. Tears cool a dry and cracked face.
Reading that everything is “fine” at home and that I am missed,
Staring at the photos of my family, healthy and forcing smiles for me.
My dog Hilda lounging in the shade of the huge pine tree that dominates our yard.
“Keeps ya going,” I think to myself as I place the letter and a few pictures
In my shirt pocket to draw strength from later.