That day…

That day was fucked.
I’m not even sure who I’m supposed to be mad at anymore — some pissed-off local, the Taliban, or maybe the Russians who might’ve dumped it all 20 years before. At this point, who knows? And honestly, it probably doesn’t matter. We just left the country again, barely any better off than when I was there 18 years ago.

One of my biggest fears shouldn’t have to come true — my son fighting the same war I fought. The war being over is honestly the best thing we got out of twenty years there. Bin Laden didn’t even die on that soil. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder how many new Bin Ladens we created during those two decades of occupation.

I was young, idealistic — thought what we were doing mattered. But what’s the legacy? Stock prices climbing for Raytheon and Lockheed? The lives we lost, many of whom never met the children they brought into this world?

I feel this weight, this obligation to make the most of my life, but some days I’m not sure I’m doing that. Still, I get up every day and try.