I should be sleeping right now, but I cannot.
My brother is a strong, brave young man, but he will always be my baby brother, and when I heard about the recent tragedy on the base where he is stationed, two images leapt hauntingly to mind.
The first: My gangly pre-pubescent brother, his scarecrow frame rigid, eyes wide behind his too-large glasses, mouth gaping,scream after scream of helpless terror tearing themselves from his throat, as an akita twice his size attacks his own dog.
The second: My barely-adult brother walks through my front door unexpectedly, still in his uniform, tall wiry frame hunched slightly, face ashen, and behind his eyes, the same horror, fear, and helplessness I had seen years before. Wordlessly, I embrace him, and he says shakily to the crown of my head "I just saw a tank roll over three men."
Hearing about this recent accident, I know that my brother was probably nowhere near when it happened. He's on transport duty for this excercise. But the man who was killed was his own counterpart in the tank crew. It is hard for me, his big sister, and self-appointed protector, to know that he is probably very badly shaken at the least, and there is literally nothing I can do. I haven't heard from him in almost a week.
Oh well, he's a fine young man, I'm sure he'll be okay, at least until he gets some leave and comes home to unwind. I, the perpetual worrier, shall retreat to my bed, and try not to dream of a certain terrified little boy.
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