When I was twelve-years-old, my dad decided I needed to become a man. It was a fresh summer day when he took me to a forest in Dublin and taught me how to hunt. I remember the day like it was yesterday. The canopy of trees filled the air with the sweet scent of evergreen as the hot sun meandered its way through the leaves. I was a fast learner and within a few hours, I had caught a rabbit. My father’s eyes were unforgettable. When he was happy, his dark navy eyes would pale to a light blue. That day, as he smiled his sunny lopsided grin, his eyes sparkled a bright sea-blue hue. Later, we camped in a meadow where the verdant grasses stretched to the steely sky. We ate our game and laughed till our bellies hurt. From that day forward, we hunted every Sunday. They were the best times of my life.

Six years later, I live in a world where bombs malevolently pierce the sky like lightning. They’re ravenous, feeding upon fear by ferociously tearing across the front like a hungry lion upon prey. Their golden roars slash across the sky like a shooting star gone awry. The slender, twisted fingers of smoke eerily creep toward our platoon, creating an impenetrable curtain of smog. It swallows the sky whole, making the sun a shadowy ghost of itself. The pungent smell of death looms around us, invading our nostrils with its sickly scent reminding us of death’s constant lingering presence. It is strange that there was once a time when the sound of gunshot into flesh provided me with pride. The slightest utterance of desolation has littered the trench with unsigned parts of men that were attached to now disfigured shadows.

The sight that pains me most is that from my dying father. As I look upon him in his deathbed, I see that his navy eyes are fixed to a soulless blackened gawk. Between sharp sobs, I try to tell him that everything will be ok, that we will be back hunting in Dublin soon. He smiles a slightly familiar sunny, lopsided grin as he faintly utters, “maybe another day son.”