A Soldier's Hope

 Tortured by another sleepless night, SSG Amira Cook found herself in her tiny kitchen, reaching for her usual sleep remedy…a glass of red wine. There was a time when the city's nightly bustle comforted her; however, since returning from Afghanistan, the clamoring of the metropolis has only heightened her anxiety. “The red wine probably won’t help tonight,” she said as she glanced down at her calico cat, Shiloh. “I wish it was me that died.” Sighing, Amira sipped her wine as she apathetically strode to the living room, but a sudden crashing sound from the front closet caused her to jerk. “Who is it? She demanded, setting her wine down on the coffee table and grabbing the poker from her fireplace. Cautiously, she stepped closer to investigate the slightly opened closet door; “I am armed; come out whoever you are.” Just as she was about to throw open the door and strike, Shiloh calmly emerged. “Oh, Shiloh, you scared me half to death.” She opened the closet door a little wider, and a black and white box fell onto the hardwood floor. “My camera.” She smirked as she gently opened it. Surprisingly, it was still in good condition. After plugging in the battery, she settled on the half-worn couch with her wine, favorite cosmic blue blanket, and faithful fur friend.  Finally, finding sleep while watching her beloved black-and-white romance film.

As the sun's rays tried to pry their way through the drawn curtains, Amira forced one leg over the couch, then the other, lifting the weight of her body as though she weighed a thousand pounds, unlike her mere one hundred and twenty. “It’s Z Day, Shiloh,” Amira mumbled as the cat jumped off the couch.  She nicknamed it that because it was the day she saw her therapist, Dr. Zinn.  It was the second of three days that she had to force herself out of bed. Seeing him was more like a punishment than a comfort. He called it ‘survivor guilt’; she called it ‘Hell.’

After lingering in the shower, she lethargically moved into the kitchen to scramble some eggs and heat some toast. Just as she was about to put some grape jam on her toast, the camera battery caught her eye. Leaving the toast dry, she retrieved the battery and inserted it into the camera. “What shall I take a picture of Shiloh?” “Meow…” replied Shiloh. “Yes, I agree,” Amira said, pointing the camera towards the frisky feline. “Click.” She examined the LCD; “Hmm…” she murmured, placing the camera back on the counter.

After breakfast, she bundled up in her leather coat, Army baseball hat, and beat-up boots. The old camera caught her eye just as she was about to step out the door. Carefully draping it around her neck, she began the trek to her therapist's office.

Sifting through the crowded streets, she clutched the camera as she descended the stairs to catch the 2:30 p.m. train. Amira entered the filthy subway car, finding a torn seat next to the door. Her head was constantly on a swivel, looking for sudden, unusual movements. Taking the subway always magnified her unease, but her therapist encouraged her to push through it. It was the ‘challenge’ he had given her to work on for the week.

 At the first stop, she was surprised to see a butterfly flutter into her car; it rested on the railing beside her seat.  “Where are you going?” A smile broke through Amira’s intense emotion. “No one will believe this.” Deciding to ensure she had proof of the rare phenomenon, she steadily took the lens off her camera and captured a few images of the delicate orange and black butterfly. It exited the car as quickly as it entered. “You must be going to the park.” She murmured. “Maybe I will see you there after my appointment.” At the next stop, Amira disembarked with a faint grin etched on her face...

 “So, what are you smiling about today?” Dr. Zinn asked as she entered his quaint office.” I don’t think I have ever seen you smile.”

“You are not going to believe this, Doc,” Amira explained as she hung up her coat and hat. “There was a butterfly on the subway.”

 Dr. Zinn put his hands on his hips. “I don’t believe it.”

“Truly, there was. I took a picture.”

 “Really?” Dr. Zinn questioned, having his doubts. “Let me see it.”

Amira's eyes lit up as she showed Dr. Zinn the picture. “It got off at the park, so I thought I would go there after our session.”

“I think going to the park would be a great idea.” Dr. Zinn agreed, smiling as he sat behind his executive desk.

Normally, he would do most of the talking, trying to coax her into sharing, hoping he could help her heal. However, today was different. The butterfly sparked a memory, and she began talking about one of her comrades, Peter. Amira shared how Peter showed her pictures of his mounted butterflies, each unique in their shapes, sizes, and colors. It was their secret, knowing the rest of the squad would poke fun at him. Her eyes began to water, “He saved my life.”

“Tell me about it,” encouraged Dr. Zinn.

Amira began recounting their mission, detailing how it was supposed to go and what went terribly wrong. She dabbed her hazel eyes with a tissue, “I wish they were still here, especially Pete.” Dr. Zinn offered words of wisdom and comfort to Amira, including urging her to keep a journal; it would help with the various feelings she was dealing with.

“My 'challenge' for you today is to take some pictures at the park.” Dr. Zinn recommended. “I would love to see them at your next appointment.”

“I will,” Amira agreed. I am going to try to find that butterfly, too,” she said, chuckling, as she retrieved her coat and Army hat. She exited the office and returned to the subway with a slight spring in her step. Visiting the park had been a frequent activity for her before the war, and she was looking forward to seeing it again…and perhaps spotting the subway butterfly. Sitting on the torn seat by the door, she noticed an older gentleman wearing a Vietnam Army Vet baseball hat across from her. His face was all too familiar, marked by bright blue eyes that had witnessed too many battles, the loss of too many of his friends, and an overload of horrific memories. She recognized that look; she saw it every morning in her reflection.

 “Sir, May I take your picture?”

“Why?” he asked.

Amira slowly approached and sat beside him. “So, I remember,” she whispered, “I am not alone.” 

He smiled, giving her a gentle nod of understanding.

          After snapping his picture, she looked at the LCD and smiled. “Thank you,” she said, shaking the gentleman's hand before exiting the car and heading toward the park.