Until the End

The breeze blew through my hair. A soft, gentle breeze, like that of one coming off the lake amid spring. I lay there under a tall oak staring at its immense beauty as if seeing it for the first, drowning out the noise around me. The buds have begun to blossom, giving color to its desolate bleak branches. It brought life to the tree, I thought.

A single bird sat perched on the highest limb, chirping as if unaware of what was happening below. It was a small little guy, no bigger than a fist, a beak as black as night, with white and yellow brushed feathers. The sun peeked through the branches illuminating the tree and everything underneath. I felt the warmth on my face, and for the first time a sense of stillness had come over me; a weight lifted from my shoulders. I felt calm, no longer scared, and for some reason, safe.

I looked up past the tree into the vast blue sky, gazing upon the big white clouds. One, in particular, reminded me of my dog Bronco, a beagle with some of the floppiest ears you’d ever see, ones that would put a smile on your face. I felt myself smiling, a bittersweet smile, hoping one day I’d be with him again. My parents and two brothers had been killed, and I had nothing except him by my side. He was all I had before I ran off, making it that much harder to leave. I turned my head, looking amongst the tall grass blowing in the wind, where purple buds started to sprout through the dirt. Springtime had always been the happiest time for my family. We would take a trip to the lake for a week, admiring the birds returning home from a long winter and all the new life around us. It was the only time we were really all together.

My chest felt tight, it was becoming harder to breathe, so I maneuvered myself up against the big oak. I felt my neck only to find it was bare. I was starting to feel woozy, growing tired. In my pocket, I struggled for a pen and the only scrap paper I had. Intense pain shot through me and blood started pooling, trickling from my wound. I wrote what I could before dropping the pen. I gazed, looking out amidst the chaos, the explosions, and gunfire; watching the little guy fly off. It was finally springtime I thought...I’m coming home.

They found my body two days later with no dog tags around my neck. Inside my hand, they found a photo that was taken the last spring my family and I were on the lake. On the back, it read as wrote, Tommy Cole, age 16. My body was taken, shipped back, and eventually buried. The war had come to an end and people moved on. Yet, on the wake of every spring, a dog with ears that could put a smile on your face, would sit and keep me company, watching the birds come home.