Dear Marcus at 42,
Right now it’s 3:17 AM. Another night where the humidity feels like Kabul dust choking my lungs. Jenny’s asleep beside me, but I’m wide awake counting cracks in the ceiling – same way we counted IEDs on Route Redemption. The VA therapist says writing helps, so here goes nothing.
First, the ugly truth:
That ‘hero’ label folks toss around? It hangs like a damn millstone. Remember little Amir, the kid who brought us figs? Found his body by the checkpoint next morning. Should I have searched him faster? Slower?
Fourth of July fireworks still make me dive behind the sofa. Last year I broke Jake’s LEGO castle scrambling for cover. His crying felt louder than mortar fire.
Now the promises:
Get the damn service dog. Stop worrying it’ll ‘emasculate’ you. Duke (that’s what I’d name him) deserves belly rubs more than you deserve pride.
Take Jenny to Normandy. She’s been saving brochures since 2019. When she whispers "You’ve fought enough wars, soldier" – believe her.
Tell your story. Not for glory, but for PFC Rodriguez’s mom. She still emails me every Christmas asking how her boy laughed.
P.S. If you’re still hoarding MREs in the garage… for God’s sake, let them go. Unless it’s the jalapeño cheese spread. That shit’s gold.
— Sgt. Johnson, signing off from the trenches of suburbia