Scorched

I

He remembered a roadside...they had been walking in the suffocating humidity of summer, the smell of the James river a nearby presence and she reached down to pluck a dandelion from its stalk in the dry uneven ground.  She managed to keep the tiny white delicate seed head intact and she blew against it gently, scattering the white eyelash shapes in front of her.

I made a wish, she said, continuing to walk down the rocky path.  She never told him what it was.  Beside him the river rumbled along, carrying whatever secrets and wishes it could afford.

II

He was now on a roadside, the brown flat terrain of Iraq devoid of contrast, just numbing sand and rock.  The platoon stopped at the outskirts of some unpronounceable village...just another slight bit of urban terrain warranting a brief inspection as they continued to provide security ahead of a larger force.  He walked to the water buffalo truck and filled his canteen.  The water spilled over his hands, staining the sand even darker.  He drank it guzzling, the heat a mad presence beneath his helmet.

In the crack of some of the village wall, growing between a gap where the dirt met the bottom of the stone a small bit of yellow peaked out.  It was a dandelion, about two inches long, and it was the color of the sun in summer.  It was the first time in country that he had noticed, and it was stark against the bulwark of the brick.  He remembered the eyelash shapes moving away from her in her wishful moment back in the States...he had the exact same wish now as he had before.

III

He remembered the sounds from the house cascading onto the porch...the dinner over, the dishes clanking against each other as collected, the faucet creating white noise in the sink...conversations growing louder to talk over the din.  They were outside in chairs, watching the very first fireflies alight.  She was actually smoking a cigarette...she found some in her brother's truck...she only smoked once in awhile (he told her she looked sexy as hell) but she did it either when she was extremely stressed or extremely relaxed.  He watched the orange burnt end flare when she inhaled, and her exhalation of pale smoke reminded him of those eyelash shape seeds from the dandelions, spilling over like a thousand wishes.  She had her hair pulled back.

IV

He lay against the track wheel of the Bradley Fighting Vehicle, trying to spoon his MRE dinner without dropping it, the smudge of food mostly tasteless, a wet pulp almost that was neither warm nor cold.  The track was still warm, the air like a hair dryer on heat continuing to blaze the sky.  Across from him, in the shadows were the soldiers beneath an olive tree in a courtyard shaded and dark.  A few had cigarettes, he could see the outlines of their helmets and the stark orange of the lit ends...they moved up and down, pulled into lips, drawn, becoming lighter and more orange with the inhalations.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the plucked dandelions from the day before...they were dying, the green stems growing browner...but the yellow petals were vibrant.  A few fell off in his hand at being touched.  He made wishes as these petals were brushed to the ground, making tiny, eyelash shapes of color in the sand.  

His wish was always the same.