I enlisted at seventeen. My mother cried endlessly the month before I departed while I tried to explain to her that it was my duty to serve my country. The first bullet I shot in battle made me realize how wrong I was. War is not a child's backyard game played with sticks and my naivete damaged her beyond repair.
Now I'm stranded in the landscape of my past unable to help her. Alone but safe while she continually mournes me. I hover over her as she sleeps under a tattered afghan, her face lined with worry and pain. I lean down to kiss her on the forehead and fall right through. She stirs but doesn't wake and again I realize that I can't affect anything in this existence.
Still I need to fix her.
I have no tears or joy, I can't change at least not until she does. Everyone has forgotten about or let me go, except for her. She is the reason for my imprisonment but I feel no ill will, only the hope that she will move on soon.
I must stay unjudged in death until she finds peace and the strength to let me go.