Boy Soldiers

I remember when our guns were hands; our bullets, white noise blown through curled lips. Our innocence, protected by trees and imagination.

Fighting wars that had purpose.

Our wounds—scraped knees and renegade splinters—remedied with juice boxes and Band-Aids.

Now, as I carry the box that entombs your tomorrows, as your body hides beneath the flag that has sent you to two places you don’t belong, I remember when our guns were our hands…

…and a sudden chill overcomes me. The haunting sound of our childhood.

White noise blown through curled lips.

And I wonder…

should we have played something else?