Dear Dillon Family,

Yes, this is for all of you: Nora, Rose, Grace, Maeve, Paul, Pete, Michael, Evelyn, Audrey, Dorothy, and Mom and Dad. I’ll try to answer your questions as best I can. The war here is awful. Days really do drag on. Round after round of ammunition is fired. Mines explode, and people die every day. I am afraid. This is all I have, this half creased, corners bent, glossy, awkward, 4×6 photo.

I’m crouched in a bunker. Not an inch of space is available between the large amounts of supply and my comrades. The smell of gunpowder consumes the air. We hear the general call out orders, but nobody pays attention. The sound of warfare is all around us. The only comparable experience I have is the heavy rain of fireworks on the 4th of July night. Darkness has overtaken the room and I’m writing this with just a sliver of light breaking in through the door. Finally the door is opened. It is the middle of the afternoon to our surprise, yet the sun isn’t out. The once snaps and pops that I heard are now explosions that leave my ears ringing. I stuff my picture in my pocket. The photo is starting to get a tear in it because it has been shuffled in-and-out of my pockets so many times. I am able to look beyond the picture. The day it was taken, just weeks before our last Christmas together. It was always such a struggle taking this picture, the dreaded family Christmas picture. The girls took hours in the bathroom getting ready, yet the boys are having trouble finding motivation to put on a clean shirt. Finally, we all shuffle down to the living room where we find that we are all wearing different styles of clothing and are in no way matching at all. Some dress up and some dress down, and of course there are those in the middle. We all fight about who should be where and whether the lighting is bad or not. Eventually, to our dismay, the photo is taken. It turns out 3 people were blinking, 1 was yawning, and 2 weren’t even looking at the camera at all, and although that photo is full of blemishes, it seems oddly perfect. I look back and think of the family photo struggles, which carry me into other family memories. This beaten up, 4×6 photo is worth much more than it appears.

As my mind wandered, I snapped back to reality. The general began yelling in my face, and although he seemed confident barking out orders, I’m able to see through him. His countless remarks saying that he’s ready to die are meaningless. I know and he knows these are false. He whispers something under his breathe. A stench of whiskey mixed with cigarette smoke is omitted. His chin that was once clean shaved is now prickly and sharp. His clothes are filthy and the battle has simulated as if he hasn’t showered in weeks. I know he dreams of bigger things and a better life. Once the general is finished giving out orders I am able to take in the terrain. The ground is cold and hard. The wind is unwelcoming. This dark day is outlined against a grey October sky. The sun couldn’t shine through if it tried, but why would it shine in such a terrible place?

It seems just as fast as we’ve made it out of the bunker, we are shoved right back in. Apparently we’ve been given orders to fall back. Maybe the generals lying so he doesn’t have to face reality. I open the cold, steel door to the shelter. I am immediately hit with the awful humid stench. The outside temperature is freezing but it is more bearable than the heat in the bunker. It is like being trapped in a steel box. Head to toe, we squeeze in. I reach in my pocket and look at the picture one last time before the lights get too dim to see. The memories come back, and I am suddenly not so upset.

Love,

Patrick