There I was. A tiny town, a gathering point for those who were summoned. We came, to join our brothers-in-arms, with Syrian artillery raining death and destruction upon them.  As dawn broke the next morning, October 7th, 1973, a small armored personnel carrier brought us back together again, with Syrian artillery raining death and destruction upon all of us.

I had picked up the New York Times from my driveway, years later, decades later.  I found an article that an American soldier had written, a combat veteran who dealt with his demons, who dealt with his personal Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  His writing spoke to me, as if he was in my kitchen, having a conversation with me, looking straight at me.  We had shared experiences…

I used to get up early before work, really early, at four in the morning, and jog and run (when I could) and walk really fast.  My rhythmic breathing soothed me, however the scent of fireplace smoke emanating from some of the homes along my route, did not.  That scent brought back memories of Syria, and later of the small villages during deployments to the Gaza Strip.  An animal carcass, a squirrel hit by a car, an opossum too slow to avoid the vehicle that took its life.  The smell of death became immediately familiar and transported me back.  Tiny infinitely small moments brought flooding memories that washed over me.

At night the thunderstorm rolled in, and the soothing sounds of the rain were disrupted by the growls of thundering and the flashes of the lightning.  Always........

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