To a National Guardsman
Kabul, August 2021
You left in uniform to watch over the pieces of a pot
left shattered.
Some sharp,
some so worn they threaten to fade to dust.
Some veiled, barely in view,
some now only the space inside an outline of something missing.
Thousands of pieces
once part of a vessel as vibrant as a Greek amphora depicting life.
Kites soaring.
Bags of grain embroidered.
Poets reawakening.
Art rediscovered.
Girls huddled over circuit boards.
Statues carved with the face of Buddha.
You guard the pieces and protect them.
Are they so broken that it’s hard to see who they were?
Are? May be?
You can’t fix the amphora.
You have no adhesive.
And precious little time.
I imagine you cursing the fragmentation that wasn’t enough for some.
For the deceived hot coals
sparking and decimating more pieces.
Planes roaring behind you. More hot coals before you.
You gather pieces for safekeeping.
Ones aching to reassemble far from chaos, control, fire.
But the timer is set. The seconds tick.
Why aren’t there more planes? More time?
Well, because it’s been twenty years, they say.
Twenty years to form a fragile pot
teetering on a table’s edge.
And now you are there.
A thinker, a farmer, a father, a fixer.
Aching to mend.
Looking out at the thousands of broken pieces
wanting peace.
Under threat of also becoming broken.
The pot is not yours to fix.
It was broken before you got there.
It has been broken many times before,
only to be reformed and shattered again and again.
Gather and protect what you can.
And come back whole.
